Today's poem is by Adam Fitzgerald
Bronze wires choiring.
lifts his fire-lyre
spilling and splitting the air with fire,
His ill lips sized to song, higher
and higher with mourning force
he lifts his fire-lyre
as aureate rocks crack, expiring
like colors rupture flower-trees
or bronze choiring wires.
As the firm-fleece of the hill
fractures from its muddy sods and mires
as chill-silted as agonizing oils wrung
from the plangent eyes of Orpheus
who sifts his wound-bright lilt
of lamentation, lift-
ing his fire-lyre.
No song stuns back the dead from their stunted grave
no matter inspired, uninspired.
Tired words work the flat absent world, so would the world
be re-ordered and regress as Orpheus could not but must yet desire
as bronze-fired wires choir
as he lifts his lyre.
Copyright © 2006 Adam Fitzgerald All rights reserved
from The Modern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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