the eccentric Col. Percy H. Fawcett


After the walls of Byzantium tumble
and Captain Gago crashes – after
Percy among the jungle cats
writes his last letter – in autumn,

after a six turns out to be nine
and Labor Day is done –
you will come into your own.
The way a Pope goes home again,

or in a rusted iron cemetery
people find their poetry at last:
the way Pushkin-cat (after a feast
of ghosts) returns limping and weary

but (for the ninth time) still alive –
the way a buried sun (like an innocent
in jail) shines, and the dark is darkened
to an utmost day of judgement – weave,

then, birthright song, like a final dance
which is secretly beginning: deus
exam out of a columbarium – rose-
dust mandala-magnetism – salience

of clay mourning-dove, or an ocarina
crooning out of silence – begin then,
sundance: welded gate of Stephen
into Jerusalem's birth-labor day

of summer sun-heart – you double-
squared orthogonal octagon of em-
braces, circling toward a rustic M
of iron-risen Rublev-gongs – rubl-...


(- from Forth of July, v. 2 - The Grassblade Light. see line 3 above. ***now how the heck did I know that, then??)

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