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summer/fall 2007 no. 9


The Graduation of Prometheus

We, the firebringers and conmen,


who studied in those bestial nests
and were baptized in the nonsense of brooks
scattered like blown dandelions
impelled by wishes and novel space.

Some got religion and faithfully tended waters
speaking only in liquid glossalalia about process.
Others, more luxuriant, drowned in scent-drenched fields
of waving crocus, awaiting powdered kingspice.

Most, though, learned to warble the pleasant tunes
expected of dusty singers in antique cabarets
or of long caged mechanical nightingales.
At least they ate well. As for me,

I sought out old groves hung with spanish moss,
testing the top-heavy heft of my maul against
the dying trees, clamping hungrily into fat stumps
and dragging them from the hazy shade to sharp-lit meadows.

Nothing burns as cleanly as hardwood.
In a night purpled by suspicion and resentment
nothing else dispels the dark into familiar shadow
or recalls the whispers, near forgotten,

from a crowd of ecstatic witnesses.


                                                                                        . . . . . . . Brian Wilkins


Brian Wilkins is a candidate for the MFA in Poetry at the University of New Hampshire. He is also a scribbler, an epicure, and, inexplicably, a good dancer.


Copyright 2007  Entelechy: Mind & Culture. New Paltz, NY. All rights reserved.