errol miller
STAR CITY CONCERTO
My own words
the poetic justice of them
written on tabloid, there is within me
another poet, then another, tomorrow, in the morning
that smoky miracle of resurrection will occur
free again in the arrangement of the stars
putting another quarter in time's pulsating jukebox
as the outer planets rearrange themselves
this is the story: all the hairy horsehair men
from Oxford's square have gone before
an awesome distant charting, the poet and the critics
and the Starship liking up with the Astrologer
winter, brittle winter, falling over fallen leaves
white herons bathed in ice, a flimsy pathway
leading to Frost's road not taken
and Thoreau's slender shack
I am demurely writing the real stuff
I am the Woolworth Poet prodigal
I am working in good faith, on the verge
of new directions, illuminated
by little daily candles of hopes and dreams
inventing concoctions on micro-tinted paper
rose-colored, like the shining stars
suspended in their forever-watch
like dragonfly wings
gracefully climbing out of red clay.