The fresh air by the Mississippi
that glides to St. Louis
from here – muddy promise
of snowmelt, my clay Persephone.
Among the people that you meet
– around a picnic table
in Duluth, or at that fabled
native board, beside the seat
of Massasoit (near Plymouth Rock) –
one person hovers at
your back, discovers what
you need before you ask (more bock,
mayhap). Like plucky Jeanne d’Arc
– or her twin brother, Tom
o’Hawk – she flies from drum
to flask like Nessie shatters dark
Loch Ness, grise foudre scorching east
to west. She’s Omnipresence
in pauvre disguise – Franciscan
ass with horsepower (a Falcon-Beast).
Stepping forth into canoe
from granite lintel, W.
looks out toward you,
Eurydice de San Francisco –
straight through steely Gateway Arch
midway from sea to sea.
Notes your grave levity
melds plenitude – lark tuning larch.