Swing may have won the war: -
something so buoyant skating cross-rhyme,
cross-culture, loose, allied and opportune -
Moses supposing in the pretty ring-time.
It's so often said the Nazi mind in Kreigspeil-bustenhalter,
tripping over its Tiger toes,
could not swing to save its clumsy mythos;
yet, ah, Funk digs down deep and levers up,
raises the dead and dying - it skates over nothing,
but Valkyries in its Voodoo way
an ambulance for love.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoesíaIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
