i.m. Don Peppino Diana


Late summer by the Mississippi
yields an agon by the Po.
Fording his Rubicon, Hobo
hunkers by crossroad (at path P).

The stubborn soul, a milky diamond
in the murk, seasons a world
of wounds with salt – hurled
Don Peppino to the ground,

who fell as lightly as a moth wing
to the concrete men of Moloch –
smiling firmly, struck
a blow with kiss of peace (like visiting

ange d’or).  Take him to heart,
Henry, the mirror said;
that mensch you left for dead
leaps like a saltimbanco to his part

bench pressed against each prison wall.
Melchizedek demurred
Don’s invitation to world
domination – orange towers fall;

that milky mutter from a cloudy center
framed Ariadne’s nets
(enmeshed with quipu knots)
into a corn-gold maze.  You enter

Notre Dame like a gray wave
of seamless limestone
turning emerald... bone
by bone, like Jonah from the grave


her naval spine arches a dolphin
gray on gray – her eye
a waterspider... golden fly
fleeced with fine thread... riverine

almond, flanked by an equal sign.
This acorn fell from heaven;
here it shall remain,
be not removed – a seed from Okean

(Kiev domain).  While the Son of Man
through the murmur of murk
will shine, & do his work –
his echo in green shade, his twin

like Thunderbird flares out her wings
& rustles in the poplar leaves
where Peppy Di conceives,
Maria Retina perceives – brings

everyone to that shade garden throne.
It is a cryptic gravity
1132 feet high
& etched with J, or eagle eye – lone

outline from a deep loom’s frame
(Martin A. might say)
or copper penny for the Day
of Jubilee – ineffable clear cipher-game;

Tommy the Woodpeck’s narrow marrow-
proof; the oakleaf’s laugh,
or Death’s own epitaph –
lifting grey sea-salts into fresh tomorrow.


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