crest of Summit Avenue

DIVERS STARS

Brune muscle-bound mansion of J.J. Hill

on the crest of Summit Avenue

surveying the valley where two

rivers join – where the railways spill

from St Paul to Seattle (Great

Northern empire, spread

with iron & steel).  O head

taskmaster, engineer, we celebrate

Twin Cities’ renaissance beneath

your wood-burnt work desk

(Richardsonian Romanesque) &

spiderweb of railroad ties (gold sheath

of Gilded Age gloaming, applied

so lovingly above

the banquet table).  Move

across the river, where they hid

Rez Cemetery on the bluffs.

There Berryman is buried

too (J.J. expired

on a May 29th).  Henry still huffs

& hovers overhead.  Clouds bank

their gray matter in shapes

like dolphins, angels... apes

ape each other, rank on rank

while divers stars shed Ocean light.

From Romanesque to Gothic

unison, one fractured brick

serves as keystone – wound tight

                 *

as Daphne or Coatlicue

rooted in broken clay

await another day

when Churnagogue stirs milky

honey   & Apollinaire

attends his Rite of Spring

uncoiling everything

like smoke from Calumet (a Bear?).

Old poison lingers in the verbal mold.

The Sack-a-Jew sad cruiser way

shone from St. Louis ‘til today –

Lewis & Clark & our New World (behold

the Old).  Shoshone shone her pilot

smile, O Sacajawea.

Solid light, our Bona Dea;

stars’ Primavera (bolting nut

arced out of nought).  She dances there

in place of sacrifice –

her graceful feet efface

the facade over the serpent’s lair;

she is the Jonah from the Ocean depths

who croons grey wavy shapes

for blind eyes   leaps

with a Nazir tambourine   & skips

a cartwheel through the broken glass

spoking a Morning Star

within that tender rose   O far

Pacific angel door   lamb-glowing Mass

3.28.17