i.m. Edwin Honig
That Bluejay with a raven on
his shoulder, that trickster
was a local fixture –
like cornered kid on stony Roman
pavement, Maggie. Now you see him
in your mind’s eye, whom you knew
from streamy childhood (blue
was the mussel surf, where the Rephilim
stamped a sweet circumference
with giant feet). & Babe
the Blue Ox, & Gabriel
w’hm seraphim, & the fish fragrance
of White Bear Lake (miroir today)...
all the waters in the world
seem to coalesce now, pearled
to a cedar point of windy memory.
Only the shrill cree-crow of the tall
iron swing on River Street
reminds you of the weight
of all that autumn. One free fall...
Weigh, anchor. To the bottom you shall go,
infant infantryman –
loaded with diamond
mondiale. A Seekonk conch will carry you
across her retina’s black sail, into
the womb of Imago.
Full fado five... just so,
Pessoa. La vida es sueño. Ephphatha.
Paul Bunyan & Babe the Blue Ox