he talked in sign lingo

COPPER BEECH

Late crickets from low crevices

scree high morse code

along the River Road,

mourning what vanishes.

The trestle bridge shoulders its iron

rust refrain.  Hobo,

Henry rehearse their slow

converse – where’s Bunny Rabbi gone?

He talked in sign lingo, for fun;

smoke signals over Pipestone

bearded the Old Gray One

whose windy glance was made of sun.

The bards were babbling nonsense

around the Ink Palace...

forgive their lack of grace

whose pride is their inheritance.

Meekness is the key to peace,

a mule named Franky said;

our mutual Day of the Dead

fringes each cot with golden fleece;

both enterprise & government

rest on bone shoulders

of the poor – our diverse

attitudes were never meant

to drive us to unpeel the Union.

Pensive eyes discern

gray beech limb’s copper urn

of reconcilement (smiling veteran).

11.8.16