Dylan Thomas

“In the white giant’s thigh,”
he recited, berry-eyed,
while the moon,
or the spotlight,
like melted silver,
poured down
over wondering flocks
of girls and their fellows;
the college library
wasn’t big enough
to hold the babbling
poems and broken science
he would write,

so he said,
booming big and drunk,
windy and sly,
he fooled with us all.
Magicians were rare
as radiation
in those days.

And dead drunk he
would lie in
some Hengist Horsa
of the New World,
his visions and
versions popped off,
like buttons off
his clothes.

The marvelous language
like a wave near
shore broke;
like a disaster
he left his talent and
Blake’s wispy maniacs,
like an Antarean spaceship,
blew at the universe

one final breath.


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