Who spcaks? Now that the Muses
have traded thelr togas for faded rags;
now that their spring has dried up;
their once firm breasts old dugs sagging,
their thoughts wandering Into clouds
Of theory, Inspiration”s exhaust— who
is it then wakes the writer 1n the might
and speaks? Now that Clear Channel
has bought up the air and fills it with
babble and gas, and Truth lies
choking 1n a shuttered room; now
that the Angel with the aming sword
has put the Garden to the torch; among
sharđs of bone, broken tablets, a mosaIc
of haphazard art, the hyenas gather,
and the tanks roll on, and the heartland
crowds cheer on cue (fhe đứm boy
claps because the others clap) —
Who sings to the dying, who wraps
in her shawl the charred lexicon left
on the steps of the ruIned library
next to the toppled stone lion—
who turns away 1n contempt
from the limousine”s passing,
Folly’s regent, God”s shadow
behind tinted, bullet-proof gÌass—
Who won’t turn the page
to a grave for the language,
nor splinter the syntax to mimIic
explosion, nor dismember sense
to appeal to sensation; who, knowing
the clif face, the handholds, the rope,
reckless, swings out past the cdge
in a wide, daring arc— the wind
there is howling, but her feet
find the ledge.
Leave a Reply