Exile Over

from Exiled In The Dobruja

The poet is screwed in a place like this –
No one comes to talk, no one ever thinks to.
–Ovid, Tristia

This country house is troubled with evening.
In hills beyond, waving frantically high,
The dying grass is thatching ground to sky.
I came here knowing I’d not be leaving,
Where stars and darkness always trade off roles.
Disturbances no greater than a breeze
Are enough to astonish one’s kept muse
Like lace fenestrations frayed at the sills.
Nothing here can be observed except through
Remotest of accidents. Here, a song
Is played like a millhouse door on its hinge
Every time the winds show a will to blow.
But things will happen – capricious as Zeus,
Whenever exile’s goddess haunts a place.

Here’s found a colder muse’s eloquence —
I starve on her lips’ crisp sound when they part
Or in a kind of religious observance
Invite her silken legs to pinch my heart.
She crosses them now, drawing cigarette
With deft fingerings from a golden case.
She looks away from me. The tapered light
Reset great Juno’s eyes in Circe’s face.

The tart talk starts to magnify the ache
That fills the air. She waxes topical:
”Don’t worry, dummy. Caesars’ poets take
The march of many feet to count their rule
A monuments to lost souls. Dead bodies
Like yours winter out, you’ll see. You won’t freeze.”


  1. Nice poem.

  2. Jonathan Potter says

    Seriously, good stuff. Thanks.

    Let’s move to San Diego.

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