The Young Blake
sleeps into heaven with his lamps on, finishing explan-
atory negotiations for a while. Desert the enemy. Star
formations, sandstone understanding, rock time in gen-
eral, whatever. Latching onto ecstasy, words that change
on waking, clover as a syrup of spring mind. Working
off a deficit of sleep or cash, you know who your friends
are. Singled out in traffic, lurching into light, having
lunch. You’re a little one with sand in your eyes, with
green on your horn, with milk on your chin. With flow-
ering ears and hearsay.
Elizabeth Willis, "The Young Blake" from Turneresque. Copyright © 2003 by Elizabeth Willis. Reprinted by permission of Burning Deck Press.
Source:
Alive: New and Selected Poems
(New York Review Books, 2015)
