Old poem from Island Road:

68    Henry's Sleep Report



  



         I saw a needle of strange fortitude
 bolt through the vault, like    a mosquito farming
 the blue    or unstable sable-yellow feathered
 hornet's trumpet vine's    metamaterial    barnstorming –

  
         an M    an S    whirled – miles over that tangled isle
 like a bull's-eye of assassinated    justice
 in the court of angels,    or    long-lost medal
 of stolen honor, or  incarnadine boomerang of unbound bliss –

  
         &      this tiny cantilevered carriage    pricked the skies
 across a verdant constellation –    binding the said
 sad impress,    blessing    with mourning eyes
 & pity,    spanning,    spinning across    with ruby thread –

  
         & so    your guileless disguise    prevailed    on high, as
 you unwound    your own    4th of July