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(26 March 1930 – 17 January 2001 / New York City, New York)

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I Held A Shelley Manuscript

My hands did numb to beauty
as they reached into Death and tightened!

O sovereign was my touch
upon the tan-inks's fragile page!

Quickly, my eyes moved quickly,
sought for smell for dust for lace
for dry hair!

I would have taken the page
breathing in the crime!
For no evidence have I wrung from dreams--
yet what triumph is there in private credence?

Often, in some steep ancestral book,
when I find myself entangled with leopard-apples
and torched-skin mushrooms,
my cypressean skein outreaches the recorded age
and I, as though tipping a pitcher of milk,
pour secrecy upon the dying page.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003


Read poems about / on: hair, beauty, death, dream

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Comments about this poem (The Mad Yak by Gregory Corso )

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  • Jetty J Newnham (10/20/2013 7:12:00 AM)

    Corso loved Shelley. He mentioned him in other poems

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