poem inspired by a Renaissance print about Death.
This time it's a sonnet.
|Why does this
child come gripping both my hands
to lead me through the faded evening town,
his lantern hissing, soft like shifting sands
to fields where once from brambles I wove gowns
of whispers, spiny silks of ivy lies
for fragrant loves now long unscented? Where
are we to go, my child? A sound like flies
in bottles, caught in children's fiendish snares
is stirring in your light. This dark conceals
the hurt of many years -- how in these weeds
I first beheld desire... your lamp reveals
a withered form. Where is the child? I see
the bones through once-fair skin! It cannot be!