Paul reached his hand into oblivion
to see if he could grasp any old relics.
He touched a wooden head
and pulled loose its scorched tongue.
He rang poetry from that tongue
into an ice filled tumbler.
Paul drank the bittersweet love
worshiped in mythic chapels.
He touched dust laden roads
of long dead romances.
He Americanized rhyming words
of pre-Columbian Europeans.
Paul translated every tender kiss
and Innocence plundered.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 