11

 
So much rain toppled on our juggled race
we were as on a distant, moister planet;
blindly we moped along, making a circuit
where we meant to draw a line.  The place

 
was unfit for a pilgrimage.  Bellicose
with bees and bugs, a broken Belgium
(crocus belli, abject, burnt in gloom).
We floundered on - blinkered, morose;

 
we sought a scapegoat for a game of fear
and found one (some fabled hermaphrodite
the sailors fetched - covered in frostbite!);
stumbled ahead... and struck Capella's anchor

 
with our feet.  Somehow we'd hit bottom.
Where was the ship?  Rotating overhead?
The iron itself was tightly filigreed -
cartwheeling polka-dots, a wired A-frame...

 
and lettered there in hieroglyph, we read:
the ship is nought; you must rebuild the ship;
otiose Atlantis, dozing Z (your smoked fillip
of corny Amsterdams) are zeroed, zed;

 
you float upon the Nile (an oozing iris
of desire).  Scattered hoots savored the jungle.
That grim report of some unruly Amazon
jangled our nerves - some angry Pocahontas

 
scrambled the rune for us!  And left a maze
meant to confound.  Umbilical, the strangled
vintage clapped obdurate palms... angled
at unseen light... umbering crazed castaways.