Thursday, April 30, 2015

EMPEROR OF NOTHING

The way a grim old 
hobgoblin  

with his small hawkish 
pushcart 

shuffle rambling 
past me—day

after 
day, and its 

little silver grails
in rows 

going
jangling—enchanted and

glinting 
in daylight so 

bright
as to widely

outshine—
and loudly 

outblast—any 
shamefaced ambition

he may 
have been having

to peddle any
ice cream—to a fully grown man.

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