Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?


Primeval spring, at the center of the forest
at the source of headwaters
where mothers find daughters
& fathers, sons... your robin’s nest

I sleepwalk toward, beneath half-notes
of chickadee, shrill keening
wail of cardinal, seeking
Persephone (between ice-flotes).

Psyche, Ophelia, Juliet...
your muttered hobo-names
for fishing lures.  These games
of avocation... drowsing yet

below Cahokia, the Kore fields
of poppies (Orleansville
or Alexandria)... Île-
de-France... Ariadne’s golden wheels...

Old Guillaume with his mummy-crown
smokes goldenrod & wine
beside the snoring Rhine.
Hobo might catch a Jonah-fish, or one

might swallow him (it’s all the same)
pining beside the brook
of Lethe... – say there, look
anew, McDuff!  Her ancient name

is Cora – she’s a round boat-maid
of cedar (juniper);
her berries are pure
blue, honey – she’s evergreen (almond).


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