Welcome to the poetry of Robert Bense

Night at the Inquisitor’s

We sat in a giant, imaginary ring
like stars waiting on morning.
The distant city attended to its jazz.
Scratch of brushes against fine skin.
The Beatles arrived late
with asperity and Ringo
already on the drums.
We heard a crowd with long poles
smashing windows. From cellars
the obligatory screams.
There was wind, to be sure.
Flying debris. Church steeples
toppled. Not always the older trees.
Though no one noticed, rage
of a flute had melted that one tune
we thought we knew.
For an intermezzo
the inquisitor poured barley water.
too hot to drink. What do you
have to say for yourself
somewhere a voice was demanding.
You could hear a tree in the yard
that had forgotten its roots
and now lies about
what it had known all along.
There were digressions. Surprise
in our circle at how mild
plenary judgments are.
Of course we had expected the wolves
to be cruel.