yodeling in Mendelssohn


The mind is like a little mirror
& the word is like
a mirror in that lake.
We skated there, one ancient year –

across the icy glass, Heidi.
In Mendelssohn, sweet
neighborhood (complete
Garden of Cyrus now, in memory).

A melody of day-lilies cheers Henry
Hobo (by the Mississippi).
He might be somebody
you know – booked into penitentiary?

Sol.  Solo.  Absent Sheba
browses in another aisle
(archived in old Rhode Isle).
Her ship’s in search of Colchia

lambswool – seamless gold web,
mute mutuality –
griot reality
lofted to laughter (on Mount Horeb).

Square triangles of pyramids
fit into portable log
cabin logarithms, Mag.
Your stone’s a tiny tablet, hid

beside that lake, in Galilee –
a solidarity
sodality, a party
writ on water.  Fountain, artistry.


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