the cube of Everyman


The Big Sky we all inherited
glows in the subway light.
Glimpsed through the Reflector-
Net (right thro’ the Western Gate).

Like rays focused on a beam
in Apollinaire’s eye,
mass merged in energy
enough to die – you joined the stream

of unknown soldiers (Harry Poilu,
Joe Middleman) fusing
with bronze sea-gong
(tall, serpentine).  It boomed for you.

A copper coin, at the bottom of a well
with Choctaw profile, Roman
grin.  The cube of Everyman
only squint of salt – a dry seashell.

Roger the Seeker seeks his soul
in that upper air (a wind
so free).  Love pinned
him to the still-life door – oak bole

of union, preternatural;
a chrysos-oil in old
dry woods (cold
boughs, so late-imperial).

Gold thread, gold hair.  Apollinaire
smokes his last Calumet.
Salt breeze, dockyard, fishnet.
Doves in grey clouds disappear.


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