light along the river


Morning light along the river,
where naked cottonwoods
lean toward the sun.  Ides
of November.  Hobo will shiver.

Still the grand yellow-green crown
of the willow sways in the wind.
The golden fans pinned
to the gray sidewalk (Egyptian

gingko sails) are royal palms
& roses strewn before
the laird of Jonah-lore –
coaxing his leathery alms-

mule into Jerusalem.
The weather is a kind
of global newsstand;
clouds mass like seraphim

to hear the briny sailor’s pipe
screel far & high at last
its elemental blast –
solo trompette marine, for ripe

world-winnowing crabapple-fall.
Thanksgiving’s on its way.
Manxman’s great Day
(Pink-Orange International

pi-squared to double you)
is hallowed with a lantern
glinting in the quern
of every hamlet’s plummet blue


eye of ocean-grey curlew –
Atlantic ouragan,
Pacific clockhand
spinning from the deep toward you.

An octopus?  An octagon.
A Chinese lantern, great
icosahedron.  Agate
lamp of Psyche-Libération

who lifts from indigo Rhode-harbor
morning threads, to Porta
Aurea – jasper Jenny
with a sprig from Davy Jonah’s arbor

(locket of bright copper hair).
The deep drone is no longer
doom.  Heart grows stronger
in the stars’ high midnight lair.

The child who moseyed to the shore
of Memphis Nile is borne
upon an Isis-horn
along the Milky Way, & more –

the red-white-blue American
turns black-orange-green
& back again (foreseen
by Queequeg on a slick oilcan)

& we will celebrate a Turkey Day
like peacocks in bald eagle’s
nest – Hagia Sophia’s
almond fan, one tout-monde roundelay.


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