By Pavel Chichikov
All my thought is straw, he said, the fat one, monk Tomaso
Ox and ass live in a stall, I painted them on gesso
Even so the straw can feed the winter-sheltered cattle
Real enough to hear them bawl – the farmer's pigeons rattle
Straw that's stuffed inside my head can feed an ox and ass
Warm enough to breathe upon a Baby and a lass
Someone else remembers it, paints a picture on
The side of a basilica, though Babe and lass are gone
Babe and lass no longer here, except I see them now
Hear the donkey braying, the gentle oxen low
Memory's the barley straw we burn up in the fall
Not as real as Babe and lass and cattle in the stall
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)
