& so concludes Fontegaia.


So Frisbee sets off into the stream again
rainwater overflow down Arthur Street
little Tom Thumb fellow in my mother's fleet
fable what is he? Not quite a man?

One of the Little People, I guess adrift on the easy
rush of Irish gab, my fancy O Farewell, my little
fancy-man, now
! O goodby, goodby! & he sails
off across the soothing mutter of her breezy

dream (for entertaining anxious irritable boys) So
this is where my own lips take the wind grow
silver, inching navigating choppy water some cello
accompaniment for an aria (keening Hero

on the Hellespont, maybe) remembering
that golden eye a look through the still oil
framed on the wall that held me tremulous (all
out of time) an almond from Byzantium in a ring

of dancing fillies (Sienese) & the eye of memory
wells with a single tear where streams begin &
rivers flow an eye behind the eye from the bottom-
most well of clay looks out gently, steadily

the eye curtained in the wings like a hovering
Frisbee-disk whose story is Now and Providence
& you catch only a glint of it in the raven's
deep glance there in the black steppe & the ring

of far-off iron, the steadfast drone of its distant
harmonies over the flood of the horses' tumbling
hoofbeats shouts of the riders nearing their wedding in
a meadow quiet vast Oblomov pausing now almost (silent)


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