Fontegaia zeroes in.


Saturday afternoon. A lambent flickering
through old porch glass. Slight rainbow
effect against yellow-green (stealing
toward brown) wood frame. A ring

of midwestern Mnemosyne (faint memory
of summer cabins?) lingers on the mental
doorstep. This is how they call,
the seraphim (hardly there, really).

A pair of prophets in a sunset fresco,
silent (in the weekend city hall).
They stand beside a doorway. Still.
Wrapt irises converge on San Francisco.

We hardly knew you're there.
Like mutters of a hobo sketch artist,
horsing around in solitary. O most petite
one o'nine muses, grace his gray,

his patriotic zero stare! For good.
His flag's his flagging repertoire -
a simple tune of freedom (by a shore
of IKB and salty waters, streaking red).

Under the darkening colors, beneath
the gray, a midnight milk-&-honey train
hoots (like wayward whale) across the plain.
Upstream, along the riverbank (its wraith

of steam trailing the other way). Zigzag
retreat toward monkish habitat (gray-
green palm fronds, some Sheba-almond joy).
Sheds everything, grows light (high milky jag).

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