in the still life

OKIE CHAIR

In the still life, when the sun goes dark

the absinthe green on the old

wooden door (color of mold

or holm-oak acorn).  In the park

by the lake, the sparse grass wakens

to an April sun;

& you remember someone

battling the ice (forsaken

minstrel-king, nazir).  A buried man.

Some twiggy unknown soldier –

stranded black-gold heir

thread-spun beneath Stalin hardpan.

The butterfly’s a Morpho blue.

Blue as Siberia

in winter, da (selah).

Listen : Quartet 15.  For you,

Nadezhda.  You, Natasha.  Through

& through.  A nature morte

très fort et dur.  Part

rags, part soft shoe, Corporal Goo;

part forever, like Francesco

dropping all his duds.

Back to his father (odds

even he’ll marry her, you know).

There was a war in heaven, in

your heart, your mind.  Jesus

the Rabbi snowballed thus –

blackballed in Memphis – sharkfin

                  *

razor between Hell & Paradise.

They call it history –

a dime store mystery

(Elsie in profile, in an oval vise).

It’s only poetry.  Someone will pay

for it, eventually

(Harry Hawk, maybe –

Our American Cousin).  A splayed play-

stub (Miss Understanding

Under Study) stuck

on a crossbar (Buck

Stops Here).  Eagle Has Landing.

Davy in the Detail.  Film roles

for everyone – all which is

inheres... Macbeth, Cortez....

Universe is empty (full of holes).

Must be that woodpecker, prying

for a worm – the dry mast

puckering (will never last)

to kiss the lightning (scrying

from a crow’s nest now, Cautantowwit).

Whittling toward Arthur Street

in Mendelssohn (complete

symphony to be determined).  Sit

down, Henry, in your Okie chair –

the nave is full of light.

Acorn shines bright.

The Rite (à Paris) is a sweet nightmare.

4.14.17