Joelle Hann
POEMS
 

Progress

Since the highrises and the fancy dock
went in, Byzantium looks like Florida
or the coast of Spain—

working people on holiday
with palm fronds and sickly drinks.

A lot of concrete.

After three hours on the beach,
carrying a small volume of Yeats,
I don’t care for exposed flesh anymore.

I just want my little flask
and to never take off my sunglasses.
It’s not pleasant to expose myself
whenever I want to.

I want lapus lazuli and priests,
birds of prayer and gold leaf.
I want Isaiah and the fervor
of Greek or Russian Orthodox,
stone walls, exclusion and mystery.

I apply zinc to my nose and slowly get drunk.
Tide is out.
No sailing tonight.
No Byzantium.



   
   
   

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