Look at the canoe


        “Look instead at the canoe, I beg you, and observe 
        its honesty, dignity, and moral courage...”
                    The Garden of the Finzi-Continis

The last full drop of summer sun
plays out across a falling
garden.  Dogwood, shedding
scarlet berries, rattles in

cool air.  Leaving Lil’ Rhody soon
(for North Star State).  Exile
is a state of, meanwhile.
Yom Kippur whispers repent, atone;

Francis in Washington lifts up
his rod of Aaron (bloom
of magnanimity &
doom).  A star from David’s cap

came forth... a cedar replica
from Lebanon – like Wanda’s
wand (the State Fair Queen,
robed in golden Land o’Lakes

boxim (within more boxim)) -
aimed, centripetal,
toward glimmer-portal
of the Milky Way.  The little foxes

all stacked up, O my beloved.
Monarch is an imago
out of the cocoon
of long ago.   A turtledove,

the El of El – Francesco
out of San Francisco – ark
within an arc of light, or
Galilean galaxy (an Okie oak).


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