Here's a plonk of more obscure Lanthanum. Harks back to some ancien matiere de Stubborn Grew.
Another solo Sunday, sweltering.
I mold my provisional home here, out of faulty
memories of weddings - each waltzing peripety
& its aftermath. From 157 Doyle (sheltering
tenement apartment) extending consequences
to infinity. Beside the Y there, just below
the Doyle Observatory (tracking a showy
morning star, her amiable glimmer). Providence,
my Providence, he whispers, like St. Louis
outside Tunis. Wrecks & errors
& the homely sorrows... nowhere's
where am is, he sez. His fraying quipu's
knotted to 1256 - but he can't explain
what he would like to sing! The choir's
aloft, but the soloist's a-hoarse - cribbed
with that defunct crabshell up in Maine -
helmet of some lost poilu (ultimate unknown
soldier). We found a single fingerprint, though :
a twirling labyrinth, back to the protozoa;
wound like snailshell, or cat-o-nine-
lives' smile... what does it mean? I think
it means the old man's comin' back. The Sojer-
Boy, back from the sands - the Ghost, the Over-
Ghost... back to embrace his mourning Morning
Star, once more. That Old Man of the Mountain,
that clay-foot weeping statue, that... silhouette
of a leaping Lafayette? In a state of minuet?
Through the needle's eye... whirl, premonition.