Saturnalia Ed Foster



Würzburg Troubles My Sleep

         for Margy Sloan


It’s not for you to know

the Residenz, the palace,

opens out,

as he would be that priest,

that you could never be.


Which means

there is another way to measure,

neither mine nor yours.


If you would listen

to the tick-tick-tick

of clocks,

the telephones of time,

they’d tell us

just how well

this courtyard

and this garden’s




can’t be made

to self-destruct,

the way a garden can.


There’s winter here,

the color of the priest

who does for white

all things that neither you

nor I

can ever do.

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