04-03-2023, 03:49 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-03-2023, 03:49 PM by RiverNotch.)
On Reading Eliot's Burbank
Once, I thought I knew the land
of which he drew his map of man,
the hollow moonlit streets of Rhapsody
leading to London's aged king
casting his line into the Thames,
mourning the loss of his Norton.
But synechdoche and metonymy
must always give way to history, and
the bridge he built between his sestieri
can't always be ignored.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Once, I thought I knew the land
of which he drew his map of man,
the hollow moonlit streets of Rhapsody
leading to London's aged king
casting his line into the Thames,
mourning the loss of his Norton.
But synechdoche and metonymy
must always give way to history, and
the bridge he built between his sestieri
can't always be ignored.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.