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from The Mad Song

Michael Schiavo

      She come from Old Avalon to the handsome valley. She got the smoky steed and a wiry frame. The milkmaid indeed. How is she only now pitching the pails over me? And the summer leave so quickly with a ruby thump? My questions are never answered, only perpetuated by the cinema, ubi sunt. So any bantam in the barnyard is envious of the harbor lights, the tweedledee of flower-broken rock. Curling herself in a shady glen, she sleeps until she sleeps. I am, and her dreamer. The day was a blue beyond. We see it ever still. The towers rise in the fury of moving on. And the world is alone at last.

Michael Schiavo

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