Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Mahler nach tod

I am angry with Gustav
when, white as bible leaves,
we step into heaven, we eat,
and I see that was all he had planned.

"The Interpretation of Dreams" is still wet,
every panicked pickling
or bleeding beast of the mind
may be invited to pluck along the vined paths
or net fish with Peter, yet Mahler
trenches a paste-tasting oat meal
to sate the woad-faced young.

Freund Hein steps into the bone-colored
dawn, an E string plies just too taut,
wrong as a soprano shilling
a Schadow feast among saints,
long as furious life.