← v7n1, Spring 2008Poetry · 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.
