begin the Beguine


There’s a baby high chair in the river
made of sycamore wood
(from Sycamore St., in old
Providence) – you could flip it over

& make a little car of it.
But the Miss is frozen solid –
can’t break the mold,
flow thru, maybe.  Love-seat

slung low.  The mood’s on Henry
sometimes, to be sittin’ there
– like Neptune, or Great Hare
the Leapin’ Dauphin (Huckleberry?) –

beyond the marina, where all the waters
congregate.  With Jeanne-
So-Dark of New Orleans,
the Cedar Queen (through the main door,

là.  La-la).  Her Rio never ends,
her rain is circulating
even now, hump King –
no matter which boar hounds, pretends.

Henry’s babble splinters echoes
down the ice.  Yet the flute
welds sheepskin & galoot
into a chord both Greeks & Hebrews

play (sustained diminished minor
7th, maybe, on
Ojibwan theremin).
Siddown – begin the Beguine, sailor.


No comments: