Boardwalk Fortune Teller
A POEM
Borne up by priestly hands beyond the dark
The clean oblation of the harvest moon
Draws no heart to it. Here the brute is stark,
Full-rationed on the rich, barbaric tune
Of jangling carousels, cheap bawdy shows,
Horrors in waxwork, snuffling furtive lust
Along the darkened sands. Yet still he knows
Enduring hunger, and a stronger thrust:
This child, this frightened huddler by the fire,
This prattler in the sun, this fool who mars
The beauty he may never understand,
Stirred by an old, implacable desire,
Traces a destiny in the lonely stars.
And fortune on the parchment of his hand.
You May Also Enjoy
Envy of the Empty Air
Of what do they dream
— the white-robed monks?
while we
with half-shaped forms
from…