Among the people that you meet

CLAY PERSEPHONE

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.

2.24.16