← v7n1, Spring 2008
Poetry · Volume 7, Number 1

Lawrence at the Etruscan Tombs

He swaggers with feverish grin,

               frail tyrant rasping at the guides:

To the tombs! Now!

               (Rude opener of cans of worms,

young addict of the female clasp.)

               A stiff dog, sunning, shakes himself No,

sighs; men descend

               into a night, a cold.

Down, down dirt steps the lanterns gutter;

               flame unsheaths tufa beams,

furls out redbody and blacklock—

               Rise! laced foot on a wakened road!

A syrinx cry of Battle . . .

Old heroes bat their eyes,

               wrench hands loose from the paint

to shade their sight—

               waked in this shafted night

disturbed, transfused,

with David’s short long glory.