February
2007
Gheist
No use calling to the dune
for reinforcements -
There are none,
but whistle,
and I’ll come
No use clawing
through mud and sand
in search of sinking treasures,
your fingers black like Fagin’s,
but whistle, my
lad, and I’ll come
I am passed from ear
of shell to ear
of shell, and if
you train your telescopes
on distant, dead stars,
no one will answer,
no hurricane shall come
but stone
Stone and slum-
ber
Find the camera obscura
on Constitution Hill
or trace a Norfolk beach in March
to where the sea has eaten
like a clever lover
up to the mouth of graves
Ramble, my boy, and rifle. Now
venture, like Holmes in his gloves
Eye, finer than needle,
Whistle
and I will come,
and lay,
lay you, hum-
ble
By all means carry
the silver
hip-flask
to cool the coals of your heart,
to numb.
But whistle,
just once,
and I will come.
[...] Jon Stone is the poetry editor of the roundtable review and part of the team behind Fuselit. His work has mostly been published in hot young things like Mimesis, The Wolf, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and Toad in Mud (here and here), as well as in Bizarre magazine. He shares a website, Bandijcat, with Kirsten Irving. [...]