Poems Written at Lake Morton, No. 7

Duane Locke

At Thebes, there were no drive-in banks or car wash,
But there was fog that gave a Japanese elegance to swords
and shields.

The past that can only be experienced in fantasy
Amorous ladies in low necked gowns fluttering fans.

So imitative of the past I can sit by cypress and sing a fiction,
"Let love come to me," but what will come, a dark haired woman

Who is incapable of love, cannot love anyone, saying,
Over and over, "I love you. I love you. I love you."

The black-necked white swans will arise, fly far away,
The coots will hide in the shadows of cypress and cry.

I know now, never listen to a human voice,
But listen only to the dark caws of dark crows in willows.