the cube of Everyman

LAST CALUMET

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.

3.23.16