The long year closes on snowfall,
finally. Over the ridge
to the Witch’s Hat, a ledge
over Arthur Ave. (#33 - les
jeux sont faits, John Berryman).
My father’s flinty ashes
by the creek, that washes
through my mother’s thoughts. A man,
c’est tout. Her lacquered plate
of autumn gold (Yeats’
Tower Hill, almost)
shines for the poet now, like fate.
A circle, fiery wheel of light...
or Noah’s boat... a plot
of Plotinus, from cloudy height
of thunderherd – heart-mirth
of chuckling Apollinaire
(his swaddled head a pear
donated to interstellar 4th
or 14th (Q) Juillet). The pattern
gold, shot through by fencing
needles, under the glancing
plectrum of wind-beaten mast. Stern
heights & forthright gunnel-curves
of one gaunt ghost-ship
surging through the deep –
one orange alba-ange flares (swerves).