by A.J. Kaufmann
Can't pick the flowers of Vesuvius
anymore
they've become golden gypsy rings
for death's slick
elegant
fingers
the ones which wrote all my
poems
they've become stones on the road
to nowhere
they've become the road's
cruel
crowning
achievements
they've become the pointless
wanderer's
trophy
the Polish man of the mountain's
legend
can't pick the flowers of Vesuvius
any more
then why I still madly hold on to
the empty
clandestine
vase
in other people's
hell
corridor
of long-gone lava
shadow of dawn
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