Fontegaia, unraveling (3,2,1)


My father had a silver wrench he tossed to lift
the rope-line of the tire swing up around the oak-
limb steel, it must have been but it's black
& gold in the early photograph (my nifty

Brownie snapshot) Quiet Sunrise in a Green
it was a long time ago the images
detach from mental frescoes occasional collages
random, incidental seemingly coalesce around mean

or mediate sort of circular logic (donut-
hole universe
?) & now tiny birds are busy in
another backyard (far from Hopkins Mendelssohn)
interrogative goldfinch definite chickadee that

plaintive you-know-who (odd dish pining, spinning
(rubato) his cloying clay, his urn of yearning)
O my Honey-Milk, my Sun, my Morning
Ring on the Telephone of the Horizon Wing

of (W-ing) Wings & it's this well of absolute
longing will meet the infinite unfathomable, &
irrational diagonal square root in Trebizond
where a little tree (almond? tamarind? chestnut?)

on the edge of a cliff whispered once long ago
to me & (with clay rim of earth growing so
slowly OK) held out the rope-line of the foot-
bridge (O be careful, son!) like a lifesaver (Mkl

row the boat ashore
) & the long (feathering)
paddle in the stream churned purling water
there (sword held aloft on lion's back by sculpted
angel in black clay
)... O my anxious, kindly father

[note : last lines refer to this great statue, outside entry to Minneapolis Institute of Arts, by Ernst Barlach, titled "The Fighter of the Spirit" (photo by A.M. Kuchling). & p.s. re "lifesaver" in penultimate stanza : I've never forgotten the ironic fact that Hart Crane's father's candy company produced the "Lifesaver".]

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