Who killed Robin Redbreast?


Already the first snow saunters down
at dusk (All Saints’ Day).
Robins nibble cherry
crabapples; waxwings are flown.

Some gray squirrel (squirreled away
in Book Depository?)
broke the back of Sophie’s
jack o’lantern... strange display

splayed into Dia de los Muertes.
So Jeff the Fireman
crossed into a bar (man
overboard).  Barranca... Beatrice...

man who went to live with Indians.
Ghost dance, compadre;
Dennis Banks (hey ey
yo).  Eagle feathers in the grandstands

quoting LBJ, ironically (“treaties”).
Home, home on the range
(small fry).  My ange
d’or – in the abyss, like Cassiopeia’s

fireball.  Wax melted in the wings.
Hamlet, his father’s vortex
seal – lay off that, Tex.
Untouchable guitar strings

(hellhound on my trail).  The man’s
in jail.  A thin blue line
separates the whisper mine
from outer darkness (someone plans


ahead ahead).  Pumpkin or Trumpkin,
orange oak bolete...
mushroom cloud.  Yeti...
this is the forest primeval (again).

American robins gather by the fire.
In the Bruegel scene –
where the old women
stoke the blaze with bones (ire

smoke-signals, from Columba).
Globilized indifference
in a culture of comforts
soap bubbles... insubstantial... ah

King of Pumpkins!  How the wax melts!
My soul leans inward
toward your abject & absurd
reward, Coatlicue – so many wolf pelts!

In the bright snow of Siberia
the cold blue fire burns
through bronze lids.  Eyes
turn in your direction...  Selah,

my friend.  La vida es sueño.
Poetry = transcript.
Out of the drowsy crypt
she glances, see... muy bueno.

The double doves of the peacock dome
resolve the red & blue
to violet... so you
are Hagia Sophia (hippodrome).


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