Bronze Age harpoon


These scarlet dogwood berries
sprinkling the patio
like drops of blood, O
thou October pale marine.  Seas

mottle thy face more than they should –
scars, age-spots, drawn
across youth long gone.  Her
billows drowned there, Robin Hood.

So the copper-pronged harpoon
dove deep, to sea-floor known
before Bronze Age.  Ravens
intone their learnèd funeral tune

& crows can recognize your face, 
Cautantowwit.  The moon
be pierced to russet soon;
your soul, also, cannot erase

persistent chronic blood-pain’s trace
that stains each chronicle
of hero-miracle,
mutters Antigone (in Mary’s place).

A coral circlet rings her hair –
aquamarine, full fathom
five; another kingdom
circumscribes (asper coin-lair).

You know it, Henry Buried-Man;
your snow-confessional
remorse codes – Rez is all.
Be reconciled, sez Rabbi Dan.


dogwood in October sun

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