Oh, he was right about Chicago,
“Hog butcher to the world.”
But that “…bucket of ashes…”,
well, no.

The Past is a swamp filled with a
soupy ooze where wriggle and writhe
spider, venomed snake and creepy
crawling things with which we must
wrestle to armistice lest we be
poisoned.

But, also where grow
glorious orchids, manicured orchards,
bountiful with grape and orange,
sticky with juice which we might
squeeze and suck until skin and rhine
are shriveled and dry.
Then we are drunk with sober wisdom.
And though we do die,
we are hearsed to our lying in,
laced with blossoms.