Summer 1954 • Vol. XVI No. 3 Poetry |

To My Isis

Death never was my king; I stalled his powers Ten years by dollars and by doctors. Even That time when he outflanked me, iced and shriven, A traffic jam held up my hearse for hours. And anyway, who cares how much he shuffled My ripped off wrappers—fanning forth from man To worm and back, through his accordion-span—So long as Soul, perched safe, smirks down unruffled? Don't you smirk likewise; true, I'm all awry, I'm dust, I stick to every whim like lint; I'm dandelion fluff; my gold spikes dry And silver off with every aimless wind. True, I'll admit I'm hard to recognize. Agreed, that lunglessness clogs up the gears Of diction. When I sing into your ears, It seems your own lone loneliness that sighs. It seems, it seems. Yet isn't. Must one pinch you (Could I but slough a hand back) to convince you? Could I laugh back a leg or two, you'd guess I wear what most kicks out with liveliness. I wear whatever shimmers … birch or trout. My motes traipse far; I gawk f

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By Peter Viereck

Death never was my king; I stalled his powers Ten years by dollars and by doctors. Even That time when he outflanked me, iced and shriven, A traffic jam held […]

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