Sans Net



Providence through library windows
like a snow-globe, from inside.
Out there, nowhere to hide,
sans avocat (nobody knows

the trouble) shiver-racked shades
flaked from sleek sound
systems... fine-ground,
filtered grit-roles (nice blades).

The stone man on the hill
stands for our good Will,
we ghosts – here, still
until yon Cain-&-Abel tale’s

fulfilled.  & by the New Year’s
bubbly lens (our frothy
yea all ears attend) we
spy, at last, Apollinaire’s

yew bend, en camouflage – a pine
amid the arm├Ęd greens,
a thorn among has-beens –
aiming toward you : like a sign

in the sky... like a snowflake
stand-in for Solomon,
dancing (all-human,
now).  She be your wordless music,

harmless bairn – your New Year’s
resolution, justified... your
mangy, invisible bride –
bright Pegasus, short Wain (snow tears).


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