Take me up in your silver wheel then,
morning spider - spectral spokes
held weightless there. Olde bokes
by elder blokes stutter again again
as a gay lil' E and a wee lil' J
swirl mudpie-full of sayings-together
- where Seahorse rides the nether-
waves, a Tilt-a-Whirl or rim o'clay
(evening in Voronezh, or Petroglad).
An archaeology of mumblings
from farmbelt district (rumbling
groundlings?) - Homer's nod
to drafty sheets - shifty pliers
of the silky seas, a-moving,
moving (wheezy Dream o'Dreamy
wheels). A roving tattoo clears
the air. Earned in July at the early
Palio, it shapes a square of lucky
turns, a green cat's-eye quaternio :
some hobo's charm of purly
gold (rushy reed in windy arc)
or some Francisco's pencil-sketch
of Lady Poverty (O lazy wretch!).
The wind blows where it will - mark
how it wheels, look how it meets you,
J-J - way back in the rowboat stall
behind fleet contenders, pal -
a donkey in cobwebs (glue, horseshoe).
slowly stumbling along (clip-clop) with Fontegaia...