Brisk Hours In The Wide Woods

[jeff harrison]

rose dies to words, the stem 
rises to Virginia's height 
this lyre with no hide, before or 
behind, will meet every delight 


so I read in "The Virginia Triggers" 
and I imagined, lacking a picture, 
a lyre was a sceptre 


there, in my picture, bloom, as nyctohylophobes 
grow savage when afar of night, tides of pursuit 


here, with this bloom, lacking 
the lyre's delight, 
many roses lie awake 
weeping every melodies 


and I imagined, lacking a picture, 
weeping was a frolic, and 
Virginia, the lady of drops, 
was fond of their shine 



http://www.wga.hu/art/e/eyck_van/jan/01page/14m_read.jpg 



		
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