Ezra Pound Enters The Tent

No, this is not a station in the metro, this is an open cage outside of Pisa. Ezra Pound now sits inside of it, his beard a burning bush of grief made new. Gazing at the moon, and looking retro, the better craftsman grins to bars, and sees a night of stars implode, his touched eyes lit and posed for labour. If not he, then who will scribble truth into a timeless croon? Twenty-five days will pass before the good guys offer him a tent, his face now wood, his psyche worn by rain and sun and moon. He leaves the cage, and is assisted in, his mouth ajar, his grin not quite a grin.