O Fontegaia...


As the morning egret rises from a river
of regrets, the word insinuates itself
into a flow of weakling years. Glyph
of gesturing brave guests - kernel-sliver

with a sail. So your mother whispered
"go!" in every syllable of Frisbee's tale -
you, the hero, donning a chain-mail
letter-sheath, making the glinting sun

your sword. It was a geste for a ghost
of honor (George, a red crossroad at night;
Al-Khidr, kidding around with simple light).
Just a return of something poured out, lost...

delta of streaming confluence, its source.
Eric the Red, Robin Hood - whoever it was
who sang in the crooked, fibrillating bras-
embrace (gong's dislocated endlessness).

It's like the shadow of a profile pent
around a mountain or a tree. Faded,
blent... reticulate inconstancy of jaded
leaves. Fan of limb-design (serpentine,

elephantine). Dauphin in the mind
of Joan, the J in the imagination
of a springtime jig. Someone
waiting at the end of the line -

Hobo or Oblomov, a maypole Juliet.
Beside the muttering ark above the sea,
the chest of secondary ribs - a perihelion
of sunken pain - golden suspense-duet.

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