& the ship sails on


The sweet old pussy willow’s gone
that once o’ershadowed Pushkin’s
backyard grave (great Russian
cat).  Leaves not a leaf behind –

only an empty space (alas, 
alack) anchors a magic
carpet o’ masticated
stump.  So we hung up our lyres

on the bow of that stubby caravel,
Acacia – stuffed to the gills
with incoherent motorings,
burbling Barranca Straits – with Mal

& Papa consulting the cabinet
non-stop... coat, liquor...
What have I left her,
now, here?  These were all spirits,

veering toward Prince Eddy’s Island.
Wracking my brains... hollow
ravine in the pupil, valley
so low... black hole of Depression

Inlet.  Perdita, somewhere in
the safety net, under
the ark at Porta Aurea
dear lightsome daughter!  Ravlin,

unraveled so.  Now rainbows flash
Medusa-shells, O
Mountainous Sad Shadowship –
to wit, to woo... (by Narragansett ash).


where was the willow once


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