The Lost Son
Included here is only a short excerpt of Part One of the poem. Rest of the poem can be included later, pending copyright permission.
This great poet, a son of Michigan, seems to be overlooked in recent years especially since new work and scholarly interest surrounding him has seen a downward trend in the last 55 years after his passing.
The Lost Son:
- The Flight
At Woodlawn I heard the dead cry:
I was lulled by the slamming of iron,
A slow drip over stones,
Toads brooding wells.
All the leaves stuck out their tongues;
I shook the softening chalk of my bones,
Saying,
Snail, snail, glister me forward,
Bird, soft-sigh me home,
Worm, be with me.
This is my hard time.