Gloom (November womb-life). In a place
of recollection (planetary memory).
Heavy Earth’s own pregnant melancholy
(seeded with strange hope). Odd, disused
periplus ‒ a roundabout sea-path, secret.
Across a square of wakes, curled within one
figure 8... & then another week... & then...
old greenface U.S. Grant’s halfway to a scent
of Lincoln lilac (O some crimson-violet-rainy Day
ob Jubilee). Only oscuridad of goldfinch poverty ‒
shrouded in a seaman’s net from a Black Sea
caravel ‒ modeling its humble bow (Mare
Nostrum) & the milky dome on the promontory
where they waited for the black sail or the white.
It’s only Everyman in disguise (on Milk Street)
play-acting the nostos-turn of Noah’s triple-storied
ark. It’s where we live (in a history
of human expectancy). So set your compass,
Columbus, to the Orient ‒ this is a dress
rehearsal for the New-Found Land (so very
histrionic, Hamlet!). The orchestra is in the pit,
they’re tuning up the instruments ‒ with an iron
fork shaped like a horseshoe (set in a limestone
mound, or salience). Pitched to a perfect fit
of attunement, in the universal key (b-flat) ‒
the milky, misty chord of galactic circling fifths.
Seeded for farming, lapsarian un-luxury... manifest
just as a Robin meets the sea-blue eyes of Marion (fiat).