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errol miller




Grand Isle


Sometimes
when I walk through the hills
an ornate village appears
but in only a moment
I am certain it was not there
in my time sharp blades
have altered the process
of focusing on tomorrow
perhaps it is in the music
the maidens sing
or the bleeding of my son
the sorrow locked in
Tara's windswept plain
I came to America by clipper ship
for medicinal purposes
wanting something perfect
and pure and good
a clean well-lighted place
at the mouth of the Mississippi
a sanctuary with wooden pews
a ticket to immortality
but I scattered my talent
through a thousand bayou towns
the brisk business of life
consuming me as I wept
in a cathedral in New Orleans
the scent of lilac
on my cuffs
and a particularly beautiful sunset
illuminating the Ouachita Valley
some other system
with ivory busts and statues
seems to have me now
rude keepers
form a Northern Hilton
excavating a red clay hole
outside of Oxford
finding the remains
of a former love affair
broken into pieces
soaking in wine
this is the alternate
route I took to bedlam
on my way to Paradise,
halfway there.



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