SCARABESQUE
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?
7.15.13
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