Gwyn McVay

Catoctin Furnace

A merry-land, damn it!         Let's go round
the old brick furnace, damp bats gathered

as if waiting for the waltz
at a cotillion, now the brick dust

chokes off what used to be the flue

'Isabella' they called it, made pig iron
(sucking at fire's hind tit)

and it's ore-some, the great high ceiling.

You had to stand well back in those days.
You couldn't climb the back crumble.

Now as it is black bears are in the park,
people camp there. It says so in the shadow

of the tight wall fortified round it.
Air smelled like sulfur. You, coated with brick dust,

survived the toolmaking test.



My Girl, My Country Sweetheart

as strawberries
hot as backseat sex

she names her boat

The Destructoress

                   --the "ess" trailing,

long hair and scented drapes

heavy on her past, a mane

of white cloth and regency

Marie Antoinette could not be more regal,
Joan of Arc not more saintly,

         yet she rages, races

against the knotted neckcloth "night,"

magician of knives emerging from her palm,
she folds diapers for a baby made from air,

a superstition, a supper, the news from Basra

strips her like a plum in its coffin,
she holds live eels in her teeth













H A M I L T O N   S T O N E    E D I T I O N S

p.o. box 43, Maplewood, New Jersey 07040