The Final Morbidity Of The Interior Embezzler Poem by Henry Splawn Taylor

The Final Morbidity Of The Interior Embezzler



I've made a little sluice-gate in the flow
of cash across the spreadsheet on my screen.
Amid torrential chaos and foreseen
disasters it maintains its small and slow
on-off diversions, so my work can show
the delicacy of difference between
the beans I count and one uncounted bean,
and where the latter might invisibly go.

The hollowed shoe-tree, the hermetic jar
are gadgetry I might revert to yet.
There is the money of the thing, the far
secure retirement years, the deep-hedged bet,
but I love working where the unknowns are,
and writing down what I need to forget.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Henry Splawn Taylor

Henry Splawn Taylor

Virginia / United States
Close
Error Success