The Flying Dutchman

Your mouth was made for a ransom note.
Lost in the badlands without a fire, 
In sad arroyos of abandoned hope, 
No quick claim deed to evoke desire, 
Regretful prospectors seek a vein. 
Like ships at sea, the mirage a snare, 
Illano estacado, trackless plain-- 
What ink will map our insurgent prayer
For Eureka striking on molten gold? 
So Knight or knave, to abet the queen
Sing me songs that were unfortold
And kiss away sorrows that we have seen.
Your mouth was made for a ransom sign, 
The Flying Dutchman and lost heart line.

The Man In the Moon

The Man In the Moon

Palimpisest "again rubbed smooth"