Lanthanum 11.9

A hush falls over the solemn day.  The limping
soldier, under his faded cap, star-hemmed, draws
near – sketching (beneath a tent of constellations)
his cup of cups, his homeless homeland.  Mumbling
between 1 point 2... and 1 point 3...  His name’s
unknown (only one of a moth of nullifieds).  Bit
from all-in-all sky-cavern.  Reversible earth-vault
smashed into milky spudscape (gala gallows-game).
Psyche, Blue Morpho... Monarch, Viceroy... just
a little blue babycap of brimful infant-joy – feet
caught amid nets of fire-teeth, anger-spite.  Yet
he mumble-burbles... foolish little smile-wastrel!
Wake, worlds! he yells.  Awake, windowless ocean!
The fire encircles his googol-cranium – bullets
of cheap death, meant for millions – caskets
for Notre Dame.  See the raisin fireseed, O man!
he prunes, in travail.  Turn, shun the shells
of brass, peopletoward cradle-rockament
of honeybeesChase cryptic fundamental path
that climbs, my androids, through these hells
of displaced nadir-wells... war-theatre theatres
devised by Everyman – us, prodigo drifter-sons!  
An Arabian hula-hoop wheeled by, airborne;
& then I seemed to see his gypsy stepmother
limp alongside him, abeam resinous galaxies.
Eyes closed – across my retina, like a wheel
aflame.  Who sketched (feeling her way) on
limestone slab... Stickman.  A gate of gates.

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