Solominka in the black gunshine


Muggy August, month of Emperors
& seizures.  Hobo Henry
lies in Sharon’s Ferry
under the sluggish limestone (worms,

mollusckies, protozoa).  He’s
coming back to Tuscany,
the Bore (some prophesy).
Huffy, bossy Henry holds the keys,

he thunk.  Amid a bole of oaktrees,
under his acorn crown –
like that green Corny Maiden,
one of Igor’s fresh catastrophes

(in Paris, 1913).  High sign
of times – the pharmakon,
the scapegoat, Chosen One –
The barking Kingly Queen

of Carnival, her last crowd scene
(crowing).  Guillaume was there,
too – orphic Apollinaire,
sighing for Minka in the black gunshine

of Dallas.  Jenny, we hardly knew ye
your sea-cloud camouflage
a fluttery montage
of yellow-black, afloat toward Iona...

America in Henry’s coulombe, now.
The bird croons at the gates
where Francis celebrates
Pacific pipestone... sea-grey Manitou.


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