of the clay peoples


Path P stretch in six directions
out of Cairo, Huck,
sez Jim – any way you look.
One of them north-south junctions,

I reckon.  There was a labyrinth
of red clay trenches –
dead men in its clenches
like flies hung in a spider’s tent

– heavy that clay, so heavy!
Like the bottom of the sea.
How could a little child be
dancing in such dismal gravy?

She’s Pueblo, of the clay peoples;
they put away wrath before
the sun go down, f’sure.
Lookee there.  & through the peephole

of his fingertips I saw (obscurely
as that garden of Sheba)
a lightning pathway – Sun-Ra
threshing floor – arisen merrily

from ripened Flanders wheat (so
melancholy).  Like Van Gogh
seized with a fury-glow
of happiness... Persephone?  O

yes!  Threading her crane-dance
through a peacock’s eye –
purple Hagia Sophia’s
woolly poncho-swirl (at cave-entrance).


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