FIVE POEMS
The signs are of a bad day. Before waking An apprehension of disquiet, premonition of shaking Foundations, of shaking itself. Yet dreams were real And rejecting morning the attempt to re-feel Whomever may seem secure, postpones the dread.
Two hours salvaged from the dead.
••■
Later. An aura of bruising, tongue Like a caterpillar, a hollowness of lung.
A lurching day, from oasis to oasis.
Oh Well. First brandy, soothing of crisis.
Plainly enough, the sky with scraps of blue Exists. Bars, taxis, newsprint, you.
You. One brandy is not going to do, Not this time, let's say a few, A round figure, a half-dozen. Better. The image finally of the given-up letter Arriving at last. The whole alphabet Trembling into focus, the trickle become a jet.
But of what? After all, nothing's wrong, Yet anyway, health, money, only the song Has an ominous whine, played at the wrong Speed. So wrong recurs. Can we prolong What's between us, intoxicant Of which these six brandies are poor variants?
No question, absolutely no answers. It's A matter of timing, of what fits Two moods, two moments. Meanwhile, Imagining your profile, am able at least to iden- tify style,
Consistency of shape, and that fluency of line With which to celebrate this one life out of nine,.
ALAN ROSS
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