The old pilot in New Orleans told me
while we mopped up after monster K
each town declines from its first day
the way a spring becomes the Mississippi.
Every city has its ideal model
hidden in the plan of God (he was
an old-school evangelical); the mazy
stream swirls back to its original
source. The Sienese collective dream
pivots in mid-August (a virginal
Mary-go-round, with actual
horses and real money). Paradigm
of local Paradise : salvation history
rooted in medieval circular (1260
their Route 66). On a pinwheel, Gertie.
Merrily we roll along, merrily merrily...
But you fled from me
faster than I could ever run
(at the end of August, 2001).
Vanished (gone maiden, horse-
chestnut tree). I stumble after you
slower than the famous Colt
44 (slowest draw in the West);
crawling round a fleeting (nowhere)
laurel, beside a crystal (balled-
up) creek. In the shade of shady
perennials, dangling buildings, where
we hung up our rusty lyres (Ja-el).
Fontegaia lucky 13...