In the still life, when the sun goes dark
the absinthe green on the old
wooden door (color of mold
or holm-oak acorn). In the park
by the lake, the sparse grass wakens
to an April sun;
& you remember someone
battling the ice (forsaken
minstrel-king, nazir). A buried man.
Some twiggy unknown soldier –
stranded black-gold heir
thread-spun beneath Stalin hardpan.
The butterfly’s a Morpho blue.
Blue as Siberia
in winter, da (selah).
Listen : Quartet 15. For you,
Nadezhda. You, Natasha. Through
& through. A nature morte
très fort et dur. Part
rags, part soft shoe, Corporal Goo;
part forever, like Francesco
dropping all his duds.
Back to his father (odds
even he’ll marry her, you know).
There was a war in heaven, in
your heart, your mind. Jesus
the Rabbi snowballed thus –
blackballed in Memphis – sharkfin
razor between Hell & Paradise.
They call it history –
a dime store mystery
(Elsie in profile, in an oval vise).
It’s only poetry. Someone will pay
for it, eventually
(Harry Hawk, maybe –
Our American Cousin). A splayed play-
stub (Miss Understanding
Under Study) stuck
on a crossbar (Buck
Stops Here). Eagle Has Landing.
Davy in the Detail. Film roles
for everyone – all which is
inheres... Macbeth, Cortez....
Universe is empty (full of holes).
Must be that woodpecker, prying
for a worm – the dry mast
puckering (will never last)
to kiss the lightning (scrying
from a crow’s nest now, Cautantowwit).
Whittling toward Arthur Street
in Mendelssohn (complete
symphony to be determined). Sit
down, Henry, in your Okie chair –
the nave is full of light.
Acorn shines bright.
The Rite (à Paris) is a sweet nightmare.