Happy Thanksgiving tomorrow (& today), everyone, from Henry & Bluejay & Blackstone & Prof. Hinkel too. In the morning we fly to Minnysota, where this turkey cames from. Here's my canonical (for now) T-poem, from Grassblade Light chapter "The Lost Notebooks":

 14


  
 A little rain on Thanksgiving.  Then moist air,
 light clouds flowing under a luminous half-
 moon.  I walk along wet streets (whiff
 of turkey floating with me) to the curved corner

  
 guarded by an old, elaborate iron gate
 into the playground, quiet tonight,
 where we brought them long ago.  Light
 patter on the fallen leaves.  The distance.

  
 Yours, theirs... my own.  The infinite
 abandoned garden.  I shall not drink with you again.
 Until.  Henry in his cardboard coracle (man
 overboard), and Blackstone, carving in granite

  
 the gnarled character for hollowness,
 and Bluejay, waiting on the empty table,
 pilgrim-servant-scavenger – the whole stable
 gathering together by the empty sofa, sees

  
 her, coming aboard – the day of Jubilee.
 Across the empty plate of prairie
 where the wind is born, and, ghostly,
 elevates a clay-bowl memory (into eternity).

  
 Because every feast's Thanksgiving, after all –
 a shared-out superflux, unto the Peaceful One;
 and every woman's Indian, and every man
 is rubicund – ruddied by the blessings of the fall;

  
 and while we walk beneath the twilight sphere
 in gradual harmony, an excess love extends
 its kelson overhead – the cosmos sends
 a simple letter, momentary sentence:  Join me here.


       
                                           11.26.98