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.

6

 
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.
                                          5.24.08