& speaking of Eliot. . . here's the concluding section of my endless poem, Forth of July:


Old men should be explorers.

I lay on the tattered sofa
near Lucky. Her little clay
fisherman tested the Secchi
depth with a black-white O.

Feathered black in Voronezh,
an arrow flew from Muskovy
with a grain in its beak
like sun along a knife-edge.


In a garden of huge routes
I found a spear pivoting near
the ides of April. This is where
St. George pinned up the involuted

pattern: star to star,
Janus to July (your hand
plunged into the red wound
with clover, pennyroyal, myrrh).


I’ll be in Indiana
living in a shanty
shanty (grainy

with a cloverleaf
for mercy seat–
red, white, violet
(el Bluejay’s nef ).


Fire licked the Rome
of your smile, indivisible
Petrogram–where RW
touches Jerusalem

and threads knot
above Las Cruces.
The nef rows, rows. . .
palms, heartbeats, light.


No comments: