The Pilgrimage: Part 18 / Phillip Neal Tippin
I have packed to a dry track by passes
Soil, healthy as a garden, worn as a path.
Summer undeaden’d some,
Some to dead winter readier clung,
Past clinging, bud barren hung.
A night unslept
To a slack weight
I’m supposed to feel it—
I suppose that’s the feeling
I get, being possessed by it.
I’ve tailed myself here
To find what I’m about—
Mix the meter with metaphor
Trap the meaning in tetrameter,
Brow beat by dactylic feet,
Meet out lyrical licks, and dub Keats.
These houses hold our questions,
To make it seemly,