The immense raincloud stretched like serpent
or shadow of raven-
wing, on an evening horizon
over the Pacific, just past the unspent
abyss of Golden Gate. Only here
ice scales an ever-brooding
Mississippi – black Earth blood-
stream (like Nile in winter mirror).
My Neva-Neva land folds history
into an origami crane –
an ever-moving terrapin
lapping on a chain (of clay).
A flower clambers from those rings –
a million-pillowed peacock
Rose, whose eyes flock
van der Weyden faces (channelings
of worm-warp smiles). Lyre-kings
hung like Christmas bulbs
from every thorn; their clubs
thronged in night circles, chorusing;
the Word was crumbling, in a whirlpool
(Ocean River, circulating
echoing Hector ring)...
‘til Joey the Calabrian (my cool
collaborator) sketched an eagle
plummeting – flipped
up a fresh crust, dipped
in wine & snow – lifted his bugle...