william lee

green spring is the whitened
color of winter in the
gray country, that folds about like
woolen gloves, on the great houses, on the far rivers.
it is there
you

stand about,
throwing rounded verbiage
stones,

eyeing the brilliant seas, they roll out like
angry written words, curled, forgotten
words,

that were left over the
broad roads.



"dear william,"

they say when the
summer comes, and
you are beating
down the wooden doors of
the colonel's grand house from
so deep and so deeply
far past-

"dear william, he
knows his way, with the
angry-
eyed marksmen,

dear william,
of the finest five, strives onward, to find
green in the winter.

light green,
almost white"

and you
are off and you
are threatening to stand, when that,
is its

threat, confined
about the broad old
rivers,

and the underside of the great
home city



like a smile of an ellipse, down the wide diplomatic channels,
wide as a river, the rivers
that run green, and are the ways
of home

(November 11, 2002)