west of St. Louis


& the word came out west of St. Louis.
Kind of hokey, like
a dust-devil psych-
out on eccentric orbit.  She was US.

The weird windlass twirled due Nord
into a wilderness
of cedar & watercress –
deserted road, iced-over, hard.

Held up on a tiny pinhead pine-
needle of sunlight, she spun
like a gyroscopic moon,
beholden to none.  She was fine

to behold, like a mason jar, with her G-
fitz-G major Eyelash Curl –
a square-dance whirl
around an Irish jug (from C

to C minor & back again).
She spoked light so lightly
all the ire of unspritely
iron nations (dusty canyon

grandeur in a pride of lions)
molted into Phoenix
ash & rainbow peacock’s
eyes – & I can’t write these lines

without tears wide as Okeanos
coursing planetary curves,
as Stella Morris swerves
another starfish into star (yes, yes!)



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