December 0

Blog Archive

Thu, 24.09.2009

YOUNG POET by Myron O’Higgins.

Somebody,
Cut his hair and send him out to play.
Somebody,
While there is time, call him down from his high place.
Tell him,
Before terror marks his face, he will belong to the hunted.
Say
He will be betrayed, or high on some fruited hill die naked with thieves.,
Got to him
While fire is in his flesh: Taker him whole and kiss his young mouth into wisdom and healing…

Reprinted by permission of Myron O’Higgins.

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