still life life still


So summer, Susanna, slowly, slowly
decelerates, among the weeds
& celery, the radish seeds.
&, painted into a corner, quietly

arrives full stop.  Like Peto
still life.  Or Adagietto
seeping on the Lido.
Gradually.  More things, Horatio,

than are dreamt of...  Plumb pleroma
if you can, Hobo –
speak what we feel we know,
somehow.  Premonitions (like a

wind-blown pennant toppling
at Little Big Horn).
Do not compare, Son
of the Morning Star (glass tippling);

you are the only one of a kind
Wakan Tanka.  To come
back from the grave... some
stretch, Hermione.  Out of your mind?

The Blue Morpho of Vladimir
eludes his abstract net –
yet he’ll catch a Hazel.
Bet.  Meet your double in a mirror

(is good luck, not bad).  The way
a doubting Peter folds
a king of hearts, & holds
the diamond.  One homing ray


unlocks the elephant casket (gold-
lined interior, with keys
to inside story)
figured by Jonah, Susanna – double

coracles conveying chronicles
to Finland, now, for you.
Finis.  He’s us, too.
With eyes like Mirror Lakes

in Mendelssohn, down Arthur Street
(the once & future thing).
Two heavy charms, making
an up-quark reddish baryon, Snoopy –

hiccups of a Higgs bison, maybe?
Concerns which we cannot
discern at CERN, just yet.
Professor Nyet beside the Neva...

Knock it off, Nobby.  That Large
Hadron won’t bunt the Standard
Model for 1000 millionths of
a billionth of a second, pard.  No, Sarge.

I was just napping by the meteor,
that’s all.  It rolled away
(under the elements, maybe).
Not Hobo, not Pope... Columbus, neither.

Those deep brown hazel eyes absorb
monarchs on milkweed... ah,
she weeps.  Who spans her glistening orb?


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