Winter 1962 • Vol. XXIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1962 |

Death of the Kapowsin Tavern

I can't ridge it back again from char. Not one board left. Only ash a cat explores And scattered glass smoked black and strung About from the explosion I believe In the reports. The white school up for sale For years, most homes abandoned to the rocks Of passing boys—the fire, helped by wind That blew the neon out six years before, Simply ended lots of ending. A damn' shame. Now, when the night chill Of the lake gets in a troller's bones Where can the troller go for bad wine Washed down frantically with beer? And when wise men are in style again Will one recount the two mile glide of cranes From dead pines or the nameless yellow Flowers thriving in the useless logs, Or dots of light all night about the far end Of the lake, the dawn arrival of the idiot With catfish—most of all, above the lake The temple and our sanctuary there? Nothing dies as slowly as a scene. The dusty juke box cracking through The cackle of a beered up crone—Wagered wine—sudden need to dance—Th

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I can't ridge it back again from char. Not one board left. Only ash a cat explores And scattered glass smoked black and strung About from the explosion I believe […]

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