By James Arthur Holt
I’ve heard tails
that fish grow wings to fly;
and, I’ve heard wings
of birds that don’t fly south.
So, when I have gathered my logic
and my expedition
and drilled through the past
to find sedimentation
you will understand
the wings of my youth,
the tails of my adolescence
you will understand
why I lay on your couch
like a mineral coal deposit
and
why I speak of love as oil lamps.
—-
i wrote this in Manordale in 1973. It appears in my 2nd book of poetry, Axle My Youth, illustrated with a wood cut of a very cool sketch done by another Manordale poet, Terri Gauvreau. I love this wee drawing.
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