TURTLE-DOME
On Coney Island of the West
in Lake Waconia
some paraphernalia
of archaeological interest
has surfaced. Shards, arrowheads
of prehistoric hunters
peek from beachcombers’
pebble-piles, a gravel shed’s
debris (shale chips, random limestone
scrap). America
was born of such disjecta
membranes. Origins are alien.
The poem is gratuitous.
Nature is useless too –
a toy made out of blue
marble, flotsam, detritus.
Ocean is grey as morning twilight.
Clouds, frail shells, gull-
feathers. Breakers roll
the whole toward a more perfect
Union (not quite). The whole thing
needs but the slightest
nudge to knock the rest
into a nest of lovable, hurtling
good will... like Roger Williams’
Rogues’ Island – Rog’s
Island – paradox
of durable Rose Lighthouse beams
*
outlasting slander & contempt
spilled from sharp fork-
tongued human mark-
of-Cain mistrust. None be exempt,
Pilgrim. We all fall in the ditch
led by Venetian blinds men.
We have to clamber again
toward mutual forgiveness (each
to each) if we would be free, just
free (happy). Restore
the crumbling infrastructure
of democracy – liable to rust –
with a sense of gratitude... play!
This is the order of the day
quadratic creatures cry
mounted on the fiery rim of a sky-
born Thunderbird. Red Wing
was where she landed –
one cosmic six-handed
octahedral diamond bling-a-ling
like a yellow gyroscope spinning
from the calyx of a rose
aubade the center glows
with its own light... the winning
smile an Okie restoration
out of an almond shell
riding her great sea-swell
vast turtle-dome Reunion
3.13.17
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