The Weather of the Occasion is Imposing on Someone

[rowens]

The Weather of the Occasion is Imposing on Someone
 
 
The god of the dead is the god of life.
Old muses eat like old men set at tables,
and homeless men find homeless homes
in homeless shelters—
 
There goes a man to Paris,
to sprint among the literati:
they still got that there:
And there's an American roughnecking
in the graveyards that contain Baudelaire and Nerval,
like a cripple who sits the bench at a football game
hoping, at least, the crowd will recognise him
his handicap.
 
And a mathematician, gelded by his
cosmic wormhole to the Golden God
entreats and echoes some fallen
Anglos from the past as he stands,
can’t quite sit, over a universe of the
New England grass.
 
A good man with his perfect green lightsaber
directs traffic to his equational left,
while the mathman looks over the sea
of buildings to a barren land somewhere in the ocean.
 
An Atlantis where he could find a place
to find a place to discover something new.