Swift
By Jack Cade
Wed, 15 Sep 2004
- 979 reads
Well now, swift! Moon of the drawn out
day,
elbow of summer jasmine-laced
air,
quaver in endless
ricochet,
How you now so
cavalier?
You never set your mouse-claws on my
lawn,
but swing sternwards, then towards
the aft
and skate aloft, a soft, curved
dagger drawn
out of the sheath of earth-bound
solar shaft.
But vain, pretentious swift, think! When
you die
with one last shift, a jerk against the
sunset
you will drop, flint-like, from that grave
sky
a cold croak, as from a rector in his
pulpit,
and without warning clout me in the
eye!
And cause me to stagger
in a
manner
most unlike
your aerial
swagger
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