where friars met the chiefs


Like a round dime tossed in a round
lake, hermetic lady
(Mendelssohn, or Galilee)...
the circle of clans closes on a mound

of blue-white clay.  With a star
beneath pulsing waves,
to summon all the braves.
Rêve-dream, song-songe (de la mer).

Smoke rises from Pipestone, where
friars met the chiefs –
an old Amerique (Lief’s...
Hennepin’s, Marquette... le voyageur);

Rose de St. Louis, Annie
de Texas... Jessie O.
from N’Orleans – down below
rim-sleep (full fado, Ariel).

The fumes are gray & sinuous
veins within rose
windowpane (chartreuse?) –
where a rustic yokel stems the breeze

like mast in steady gale.  He’s
smiling (thick mute mule,
dumb lamb).  You’ll
toss him in a hole – he slappim knee.

The frost hurls stern memorials
across blank mirror-ice
(in Mendelssohn).  Yet twice
& twice, bright eidelon... (loon calls).


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