vive la France


This rustic humble tablecloth
from Vienne street fair
(crowding her amphitheatre
hewn by Rome) poses a math

problem : how can I square this
table ronde within
the weathered octagon
of an American gazebo?  Ms.

Emily might know, or maybe Marianne...
some mounded clay pitcher
of accurate grace.  Her
toss across a potter’s wheel (nine

innings for a feline Muse)
spins stars like comets
through snarled sailor knots –
Mary & Rachel, bearing news

of natural law so blazing sharp
as to make arrowhead
speed from seabed
(trompette marine like Jonah’s harp

reshuffling my raven coil
into the Argo figure
of a prow’s green furl).
Honey from spun goldfinch foil

will pour like waxen flame – the living
sœur de Jeanne d’Arc,
sourire of each undying spark –
calm rondure of a square (Thanksgiving).


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