Another poem I received today, encased in Spam

"What is There in the Depths of These Walls"
by Sheldon Hayes

to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
Against this sky no longer of our world.

From there. Toward . . .

It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,

Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Covering the land—
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
By trees—or might see as the masonry
Writhing their stunted limbs,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .

What is there in the depths of these walls

Labels: poem, poetry, spam, spam poetry