the angry clown is not your father


If we look once more at your Topsfield
Aquinas-map, Dante –
that earthy horn of plenty
floored by starry sarabande (sealed

fan of luminous phenomena)
the heavy things of Time
rehearse the Salem crime
with simple weight of rigid clay –

ice-cold, stone-cold, bereft of life.
The line sags from the bridge;
the daughter of a lost age
droops, off-balancing (soul-grief).

Quantum quirks of spooky action
powder another image
for displaced rage
into the time-funnel... dissatisfaction

with oneself provokes a personal despair.
We do not know who’s there.
Halloween is in the air;
brown leaves congeal to pumpkin hair,

the angry clown is not your father
anymore.  O Juliet,
the phony craven despot
crafted no safety net... look further.

A rippling of seashore memory
brings grey gulls to sleep.
The peacock’s eyes gaze deep
as Argo... hold her now, Hagia Sophie.


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