Surprise, surprise (to me!)... sometimes it just melts like frost on a Frisco stove (Crisco)... this reminds me of a certain type of yodel that was published in The Hat and Fulcrum (& Dove Street)... - & lots of other things, back in the Qua-train (let the Midnight Special... shine a light on me). Must be because yesterday was my birthday (& JFK's!) - & tomorrow's WW's birthday...


Harmonics of the octave tend toward unison
on the 8th day when Raven sheds his feathers
and descends out of the primitive Fathers'
fresco out of Voronezh Calabria an icon

of Diving Eagle (trailing a shadow in grey
watercolor) mosquito weather 109 degrees
in the shade
of the petrified well of Sheba's
garden (Shulamith) (surely a myth) hey-ey-

eye of sunstroked horsehair afloat riding the
air like a Scythian soothsayer toward a wedding
without fail furnace of B-flat cosmic soldering
fearing not heat o'th' sun by day nor the

moon by night since he carries the sceptre and
wears the crown seated in the Pushkinian
catbird seat of ink-wound path
and meteorite and the myrrh-box of a Magdalen

opens for him hidden under a cloud of royal
Ethiopian milk where the ark (like funereal
bridal train or PT-hovercraft hymeneal
barge of the Law Melchizedek-amygdala

- lucid Sophie, from way back when) shines
in the sunlight your spiral-jetting J or
Golden Gate your Fontegaia your
Itasca-source victorious amid green summit pines

so the harmonica steeled in the Iron Age
breathes forth and sounds a trump-card chord
and the seraphim's 8-winged triplets (all aboard!)
transpose (B-fl to C) this waltz for disguised page

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