flesh-tone bridge


The wistful twirling of a yellow leaf
falling from a book of leaves
by the big river.  Waves
of leaves, infinite beyond belief

slanting down through a universe
beyond fall’s azure,
through its perfect mirror
of ineffable air.  The woodpecker’s

not waxwing, but a twin-bird –
matching Thunderbird
like third wing, or word
thing – in Red Wing, we’ve heard.

& they’ve buffed the naked concrete
of the Franklin Bridge
to warm flesh-tone (Wedge
whistling to Jay : almost complete,

they say).  Like hands arching across
the tingling serpent below
someone signals so –
right, all right.  The frail cosmos

is built of moss & dogwood leaves;
made like a dream-song
on a thread so long
from inner lining of young Osip-sleeves.

Hid in a nightfall of Apollon-wrath.
The child-heart trembles
when the chief dissembles –
ice winking in the barrel underneath


encompassing a land in shambles,
wasted by Behemoth
& Metheboss (cloth-
of-gold twin skimlords, crashing cymbals).

El-Moloch asked for the heart of your son.
For your son the king,
the bloom of everything –
Aztec football in place of the sun.

Apotropaic sign or mirror-pharmakon,
the murmured word of love
becomes a catcher’s glove –
inside-out Osip net (for rescuing someone).

You search the scryptics, yet you
do not come to Me.
Gold almond cider, see?
Where Mendelssohn defeats Deep Blue.

She’s by your side, a kelson, smiling,
spinnaker through gray wall
of seamless cloud – whale
of light fog, swallowing Jonah – a ring

of stone, becoming breathing feathers
for a child of Ocean River,
borne downstream from Neva-
Neva-Heavenland (all-planetary weathers).

Her green eye walks through doors, through gates.
That crossroad in the mirror
overwhelms birth-terror –
seals mazy charter (Liberty checkmates).


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