pavane pour une enfante


The river’s running high.  A tattered
linen cottonwood leaf
would lief be drifting
down the bronze serpent, toward

New Orleans.  January ice
will buckle on the iron
bridge – kids’ tongues on
frozen playground bars (cruel vise).

Hobo’s pal, Billy Apollinaire,
will mime an Orphic flute.
Satie, Ravel... sweet
astringent melody (pure air,

unseeable).  Pavane pour une
enfante défunte.  Meanwhile
male bondage is in style.
Our Master fabricates jejune

disgust for all things feminine;
his orange bonfires meld
fright into towering shelled
walnut eyries... flight from Someone

unaccountable (strange, uncontrollable).
Within a bomber’s O-range
now (I will arrange
accommodations for my sable

granite safety crypt) some Bluejay
whistles like a soloist
through sea-pine mist
sparse knotty blue-green (sotto voce)


memory.  The threads are fractal,
earth-quick.  Escapees.
Some limestone frieze
of Aphrodite, out of Rimini (or Hell)

feinting assaults above Sault Ste. Marie
(Lawrentian divides
shift icebreaks, tides...)
until the copper icon of green Liberty

lifts torchlight like Hagia Sophie –
her living harmony
of agape, for you
& me, enthroned (Okean-sea).

So like the sun lifting from azure salt
the fellowship of wisdom
born of mute charism
(Love’s lightning catenary vault

of steadfast blooming adoration)
lifts healing rescue-signs
for desolate young queens
& kings of darkened mind, O Solomon;

the little princess Shining Star
pirouettes all morning
in her stone-circling
agate labyrinth (somewhere

near Chartres, Oklahoma) – Ariadne
slips the woolen thread
around your wrist – dead
spring to life (Magdala, Galilee).


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