her smile shall win


Sultry evening in the Twin Cities.
The earth.  My mother’s kiln
stoked like Jersey landfill
with Dante’s willful souls – at ease

like oil on fire.  My moss-green vines
climb the gazebo skein.
Oblomov lived in vain
& died, sweet gentleman.  My light declines.

Oblomov dreamt a febrile dream,
icon of idle summer
grace.  Her lips murmur
& tickle his ear – Awake, Sunbeam...

Dante, shaken, shudders with Love
& epileptic ecstasy;
parallactic Ocean Sea
& shadowy Argo up above,

Emperor Henry on chariot-throne
of Rhodian charity.
A band of silver-grey
light-thread knots chords – the drone

of universal B-flat (Kingdom Come
with trombones, clarinet
& flute) – At Last.  FIAT.
Oblomov lifts his balding dome,

his heavy lashes... orange twin
pillars hold one Ariadne-
loop.  Pacific naiad?
Juliet?  La Paix?  Her smile shall win.


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