Dirt Kelpie, Plato's Your Simon Magus

[jeff harrison]

the kill happened on the initial sheet, 
which some other poem insisted is 
the playing floor concealing the butchered earth 
the kill left ashes, paper them freely 
they were unfrequented matter anyhow 
and too long truant from literary wreckers 


there are thimbles now on the playing floor 


paper wreckage buy dead with thimbles 
they discovered your travels were false, sailor 
they spun your tales to the other side 
and the thimbles' heads served as models 
for these lines: O thou in the earth 
play not at living -- not waves, not dawn, 
but the butchered earth, thyself carriest 
seafarers home again, here's dirt kelpie, 
the worst spinning-wheel outside all rushy home 
this is behind one and each hurry-things 


there's a spinning-wheel now on the playing floor 


this is a storm no bird has ever haunted, nor kelpie below 
to feel it, nor waves, nor dawn, nor butchered earth 
to hide it away, it is the mouth's foundation, crammed 
between finny jumps, with the sunset goes its dust 
swerve much does this dim story, an old store of 
bones, aye, a squeak sack, it belongs amongst coals 
it belongs in some other poem insisting the pitiable 
earth will be soon enough be sky in Heaven, and in 
that sky swims the dirt kelpie - a hundred was its cheeks, 
a thousand was its horns, and at last, at long long last 


there's a dirt kelpie now on the playing floor 


		
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