Occasional poem : on (the former) St. Henry's Day


Backyard evening, noticed by
mosquitoes – little winged
lancers (rusty, tinged
with ragged tears).  St. Henry’s

Day, ex domicile (Jardin
des Mousquetiers).  Boom,
boom.  Little room
on high (full of eaglets’ din).

Level with me – let us speak plainly
now.  Fluked in a net
among flags, words – let
this servant-surf unroll.  Mary,

your wide fling-sponge... cathedral
hecatomb of feral
air (on fire).  All
shall be welcome here (the moral

of the tale) – even the big-eared
rabbits of San Francisco.
This is America, you know.
A 51st state-of-mind’s geared

toward Port-au-Prince : tres
riche tresses are hers,
her sails soft whirrs
(hummingbirdings)...  Say,

Juan Fernando... those stars...
ringed round a beam
en face... trireme?
Isis barge?  Rainbarrel, house?


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