Rapture
The sons of man carry the son of god,
a vision in pure lead, on their sore backs:
cast iron men, like baked yellow marbles
falling off vacant tables. Lead makes
marks on empty visions, a subtle lash,
veins only the tender place, rusted like
maggots in a dead carcass from inside.
Cross-like minds write of veins to be learned,
motion pictures out of a loudspeaker,
entertainment for the masses gushing
only sounds and attendant stormy clouds.
The cross sings but few deep songs, blue-veined
echoing frogs mine stories lead, tumors
dance a cast iron reel ignoring rapture.
Grand Island
1974
Grand Island Series
©1974 Rapture — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
a vision in pure lead, on their sore backs:
cast iron men, like baked yellow marbles
falling off vacant tables. Lead makes
marks on empty visions, a subtle lash,
veins only the tender place, rusted like
maggots in a dead carcass from inside.
Cross-like minds write of veins to be learned,
motion pictures out of a loudspeaker,
entertainment for the masses gushing
only sounds and attendant stormy clouds.
The cross sings but few deep songs, blue-veined
echoing frogs mine stories lead, tumors
dance a cast iron reel ignoring rapture.
Grand Island
1974
Grand Island Series
©1974 Rapture — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.