Two lean ancient red pines
standing blue-green beside
Grandpa’s old house, abide
fanfares of trumpet-vines
(pure orange bugling). Something
not rotten in the state
of Norway, loco Hamlet –
needles for constant farthering,
an evergreen encounter with the Pole.
A fado rudder for America...
glows with her dusky song, high, whole –
hidden in clouds of starry Eire
that slake eddies of fear
into limey atmosphere
like elfin emeralds from the mire.
These curves along Rhode Island Way!
leans down beside a tomb
hunched in Ravenna tamaracks – Dante
& Roger shaking hands (the ghost
of Beatrice will not bow
before the imperial scow,
nor heed the plutocratic boast
of idle punts). Just a bivalve ark
(tender ellipse of fatherhood)
redeems the bent wood
Caesar to seahorse – shark to lark.