ASPHALT PATH
Yesterday your birthday, Papa.
92, mild ghost. Sun-wheel
set at Swan Point... seal
of a woman’s self-extinction. Ah,
woeful calendar (Coatlicue).
Strife of father & son.
Friday black sun,
aboriginal sin (hey ey
yo). Here in Minneapolis
snow, interring April
in one wide hexagonal,
preserves a buried man in ice
(Resurrection Cemetery).
Henry ascends the asphalt
path from heart’s tumult
to frozen Father of his Country.
Washington Ave. Bridge. Yet
(wobbling, wavering
within your shadowy
ring of flame) – dawn’s pale promise!
Man’s faithless diffidence his own
life sentence, we
depend upon your mercy
to raft us into Libertas again –
mysterious Jonah in the “33”
(Mars’ den) whose hum
breaches delirium,
wind-bred to share (Nazarene glee).
4.13.18
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