Collected Poems of John Holmes
Holmes, John A., Jr.
2002
Photographer's Sunday
Photographer's Sunday
From our spites and sickbeds, Billowing like nuns in wind Round a brick corner, heads Down, we come gusty in mind Out of the March street-dust Into bare, wide, shadowy sun. | |
Heads up. Slow down. Not so fast. This light and air is thin. No one is crossing far away. No one stands half in doors. It is a photographer's Sunday, All the cars somewhere else, No one but us coming here On a high wind, or by choice. Windows are looking for No one, nor expecting us. | |
Run. I hear an accident At an intersection of nerves. Nijinsky's come all unbent, And like a mad newsboy raves. My enemy's said my name. Dare he? I'll have his eyeballs. My heart's a kettle-drum, My engagement-book spills Busy puddles on history, And my shoes are soaking full. Oh thus to be a missionary! | |
The mindful peaceful are dull. | |