What I made (homemade) in a B & B in New Hampshire. Not realizing I was 2 blocks down the road from Robert Frost's house.


The last of the sunset, a pink slip of violet fire
cradled in a vertex of these ancient feminine hills.
Here laborious Farmer George buried his skill
for burial. Terse kingdom of New England ire

(think, Hesiod). Elliptical. Stubborn stub,
stump. Great-Grandpa saw his opportunity
and lit out West (pretty gals, plenty money)
leaving behind old Yankee (post-Civil War)

memoirs. That time he fell onto the thresher,
kept it to himself. Somehow the story got out
- but whence this diffidence, meek Cincinnatus?
Fumbled for the key to the machinery... there

entangled (grimacing a bit, in pain). The last
of the nine (Melpomene) leans down (goldfinch,
turtle-dove)... eight bells, sounding. Winces...
wings to silence. Copper profile, soldered to mast.

There was, once, a very brave racehorse
(in Kentuck). Like Catherine upon her wheel
she took to the Derby, a Frisbee-Elohim... fell.
Limps now from the grave (a horse is a horse,

Mr. Eddy Puss) - come back again... somebody's
Magdalen (out of a charnel-house of universal
freeze). And she pulls that hearse of hers
with her shoulders (home to her mother's house,

handsome). The octave swells, then
(from the old 33) : his pastured accompaniment
to her deep well-voice, on the radio (gradual bent
through sky). Clay pipestem lips mime violin.

Franconia, N.H.

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