Among the people that you meet


The fresh air by the Mississippi
that glides to St. Louis
from here – muddy promise
of snowmelt, my clay Persephone.

Among the people that you meet
– around a picnic table
in Duluth, or at that fabled
native board, beside the seat

of Massasoit (near Plymouth Rock) –
one person hovers at
your back, discovers what
you need before you ask (more bock,

mayhap).  Like plucky Jeanne d’Arc
– or her twin brother, Tom
o’Hawk – she flies from drum
to flask like Nessie shatters dark

Loch Ness, grise foudre scorching east
to west.  She’s Omnipresence
in pauvre disguise – Franciscan
ass with horsepower (a Falcon-Beast).

Stepping forth into canoe
from granite lintel, W.
looks out toward you,
Eurydice de San Francisco

straight through steely Gateway Arch
midway from sea to sea.
Notes your grave levity
melds plenitude – lark tuning larch.


No comments: