zig-zag Fontegaia.


The sparse dogwood in the evening gloom out back
glows like phosphorus. Robins yodeling like mad.
Cars stirring dust at the corner. And he said,
ever-returning spring. Like an old Micmac,

paddling himself upstream always - an argument
by neverendingness, against the tidy closure
of each lead-lined lid of epicurean and sad
composure (meerschaum despair). Saint

George in his own element, an L-shaped move
among the troubadour-cicadas. Militant
amor in armor, silvered whorl of a brow all-
cognizant (disseminated now, concentric wave

on wave). Whose motion is homeward, always.
Like the tale of the sailor hidden in lamb-
limbs - Noman was his name, or Everyman -
one long-delayed and drawn-out share of Paradise

his scarred rebound. What seemed elliptical
and sly was angled right - all zeroed in
toward a squared-up breathing contest (90
degrees in the humid shade - a silhouette of L

whirled in a J-spiral). Where life resides
in shifting clay zig-zags; where the potter
spins her delta silt (rote rotation - water's
utter source wrung round again). He says,

ever-returning spring. And the voice shudders
like flung pigeon fleets - shucks into air,
plummeting, fading. As if no one were there then
between 33rd and Chamber (or just a ghost-rider).

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