Thinking of End of King Lear In a Backyardish Way
Never, never, never, never, never
tugs at my eyes, the retinae hung
with ropey cords; those I’ve loved/lost
rumpled cloths
upon those lines, stiff
as boards now, frayed
capture-the-flag wisps.
I want, foolishly, to weep them back
to softness, only the never in which I live
makes tears dry down, allows just
the collapse of salt,
the damp evening grass that lapped
imprints of even tip-toed steps
silted over. Though clumped sand seems stuck
in off-kiltered hour glass, still and ever,
it runs.
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I am calling them all drafts for the moment for too many reasons to delineate. (One is that I am back in States, but still not home1 And not with my own computer.) This draft poem written for http//:withrealtoads.blogspot.com prompt re Shakespeare (whose birthday is in April.)
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