Bacchus Surveys His Subdivision

The world is said to spin, and so it seems.
I find it hard to make my way across the lawn.
A couple drinks out on the porch and I am
Done, a cheery god who'd summon servants
And be borne again inside a fine sedan if
This orb hadn't spun so much already,
Hadn't humbled me. The Pantheon's
For tourists now. The bacchanals along
This street are dull as hell, and look at
Me. What sort of god would wear such
Clothes, would let himself be tumbled
From Olympus to a little cube, in which
He oogles numbers, blushing virgins
Nowhere to be seen? But, hark, the
Grape remains at hand. The sun has
Warmed my little field, and, with the
Skill and strength of one divine, I heal
This earth's decay. It will recover all
Its glory as I make it spin.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 22 times
Written on 2012-02-04 at 00:21

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