Frosty In Hell


Subaqueous humors these render my form
Unable. I am as those wonder-workers
Antediluvian, marmoreal, deep in memory,
Or as Trajan o’erarching all the city
Back from Cologne and gone to potherbs
In the truck gardens and Catacombs of Rome.
Here is dilemma! Here the wisps of me
Trail along the malodorous waterways
Of by-lane and gutterkeep, I wince
To see me undone, quite forsaken all
Hip-deep in the morass of me, the button
Of my nose, my coal-black eyes, my jolly scarf
Like borage on the puddle of my self,
And none to put my top hat on the shelf.