He loves her until tomorrow or until 12:15 AM when again he assumes the firedrake, ricochets from the walls in the exhaustion of kingship; somewhere in his skull the Bible's leaves seem turned by another's hand. The pool table's green felt is earth, ivory balls, people cracked toward leather holes. Christ's blood is whiskey. Light is dark. And light from a cave in whose furnace three children continue their burning. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON SIR PALMES FAIRBORNE'S TOMB, IN WESTERMINSTER ABBEY by JOHN DRYDEN FOUR PRELUDES ON PLAYTHINGS OF THE WIND by CARL SANDBURG VERS LIBRE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS LOOKING DOWNWARDS by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE FALL OF THE YEAR by EMIL BLEMONT |