after Ezra Pound
Oh, Zeus, oh, Aphrodite,
oh, Bacchus,
give me, I beseech you,
give me on bond a tiny tavern
with shiny bottles
shelved in Indian file
to woe thy eyes,
and haunting rum and tequila
phials opened
under the Dutch tobacco light.
And a pair of funnels
slightly worn out.
And, passing by, two hookers with
hefty words,
tiding up the whiff in their hair.
Oh, Zeus, oh, Aphrodite,
oh, Bacchus…
Oh
Give me on bond a tiny pub
or any other errand.
Aside from writing,
unendingly.
Something in which the brain’s got time
to rest.