O Fontegaia...

21

 
As the morning egret rises from a river
of regrets, the word insinuates itself
into a flow of weakling years.  Glyph
of gesturing brave guests - kernel-sliver

 
with a sail.  So your mother whispered
"go!" in every syllable of Frisbee's tale -
you, the hero, donning a chain-mail
letter-sheath, making the glinting sun

 
your sword.  It was a geste for a ghost
of honor (George, a red crossroad at night;
Al-Khidr, kidding around with simple light).
Just a return of something poured out, lost...

 
delta of streaming confluence, its source.
Eric the Red, Robin Hood - whoever it was
who sang in the crooked, fibrillating bras-
embrace (gong's dislocated endlessness).

 
It's like the shadow of a profile pent
around a mountain or a tree.  Faded,
blent... reticulate inconstancy of jaded
leaves.  Fan of limb-design (serpentine,

 
elephantine).  Dauphin in the mind
of Joan, the J in the imagination
of a springtime jig.  Someone
waiting at the end of the line -

 
Hobo or Oblomov, a maypole Juliet.
Beside the muttering ark above the sea,
the chest of secondary ribs - a perihelion
of sunken pain - golden suspense-duet.