Your moon, Apollinaire


Air is mirror-brilliant today, even
shadows cut clean
across Touro slate.
Mid-September, slanting sun,

a New Year for an old people.
Someone plays a flute
off Morris Ave... fleet
foot sails into New World marble.

As in a low relief in Rimini –
an august Agostino
Venus, or Diana
whorled in limestone dithyramb

out of the sea.  The jutting cliff
crusted with barnacles
whittles its pinnacle’s
bowsprit, figurehead – her glyph

(lifted in one hand-wave) twin
scallop-shells, like
castanets (break,
crashing surf...) where time began.

Your moon along the shore, Apollinaire.
Limestone foundations
crest across seasons,
granite castles – seagull’s mother,

feathering horsegrass in your hair.
1321... 1132...
Joachim voodoo;
Jeanne’s grey-eyed icon (Galla’s lair).

"Venus Beats All"

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