retiring an artist
i.m hugo claus

another white
knight comes
crashing in from the
plains not knowing
he's really a
syndrome

& from a land not
that much lower a
heathen just a little
behind his tail
trailing his tale

chasing claustrophobic
countrysides craving
innocent (or so
they like to think)
souls

& he belongs not in
his own words to
a country but to a
language

or more to the
point that language be
longs to him & who
ever else likes to
claim it

& claims are laid &
baited for the approaching
of the hour

saying thanks but no
thanks to the offer of
prayer for the sinners
so called strike up a
tune instead

& a cobra takes
off into a canvas