OK, here's the last of the first (chapter) of Rest Note. I can only do so much - need a breather. This is the comic coda.


We waltz toward August, slowly now. A storm
named Beryl swings out of the Caribbean
toward the coast. Treetop cicadas sharpen
rusty shares (portents of the sharks to come).

Old documents are buried in tree-rings,
blue Morpho prints. What draws out Teddy from
the jungle, Jonah from the whale? What crumb-
line on the forest floor, what ninefold kissing-

cousins' game? A golden ball goes glancing,
askew, across the floor... the map's a whorl...
the mower's lost his way, his heart is gone
a-morris dancing, amor is a-morris dancing...

Still, sweet, a voice arises from a zone
of rest. Rapid little wavelets, ringlets,
reverberating through suspended nets
of marigold sun. A wreath for the horizon.

Only a heart playing loop-de-galoot with a gal
with a blue-green beryl on her brow. A berried
lobster, lobbed over her shoulder, ferried
toward hurt seaman's tomato bucket. Sail

ho, Pilgrim! Can't bury me yet!
Lazarus (like cicada in sequoia, Hitchcock
in San Fran... like Everyman). A cricket
see-saws on a fiddle. Summer wells

up from a lily pad. All hearts are in
suspense. Upon the coracle Capella, panning
gold from Saturn. A lute-string's spanning
chord sustains : it is the tender rose's twin.

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