A Poet Is Born Not Mad(e)

I AM echoing in the indifferent air,
Clare rose from his maddened fog
and must have wept to see the mirror.

How long would it be before he was
To be toss'd into nothingness once more,
The cloud smothering him in his shroud?

What is worse, The tragedy of insanity:
Hos life's slow swirl into the maelstrom-
The bare knuclked fight into oblivion;

Or wretchedly waking to watch the vast
Ship of his hopes woefully wrecked
Against the rocks of his past?

Terling

In shaved light
The great leafed autumn
With its Klimt shimmers
And Palmer palimpsests
Is waiting to sleep.

Yet there is still surprise
Before the ground grows iron
And bereft
But for bare stalks:

We can hear in its breath;
In this sweet rot
The secret is out,
There is delight in this death.