GAZEBO SKEIN
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.
7.21.16
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