The church is an iceberg.
It's the wind. It must be blowing
tonight
Out of those galactic orchards,
Their Copernican pits and stones.
The monster created by the mad
Dr. Frankenstein
Sailed for the New World,
And ended up some place like
New Hampshire.
Actually, it's just a local drunk,
Knocking with a snow shovel,
Wanting to go in and warm
himself.
An iceberg, the book says, is a
large drifting
Piece of ice, broken off a glacier.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment