Path P stretch in six directions
out of Cairo, Huck,
sez Jim – any way you look.
One of them north-south junctions,
I reckon. There was a labyrinth
of red clay trenches –
dead men in its clenches
like flies hung in a spider’s tent
– heavy that clay, so heavy!
Like the bottom of the sea.
How could a little child be
dancing in such dismal gravy?
She’s Pueblo, of the clay peoples;
they put away wrath before
the sun go down, f’sure.
Lookee there. & through the peephole
of his fingertips I saw (obscurely
as that garden of Sheba)
a lightning pathway – Sun-Ra
threshing floor – arisen merrily
from ripened Flanders wheat (so
melancholy). Like Van Gogh
seized with a fury-glow
of happiness... Persephone? O
yes! Threading her crane-dance
through a peacock’s eye –
purple Hagia Sophia’s
woolly poncho-swirl (at cave-entrance).