ballet russe

SANS SEINE

Along a cinder pathway

through November woods

Hobo, in one of his moods

murmurs a Mississippi lay.

Under his arm, his matryoshka

maiden – his mater within

mater, painted, wooden;

on his head, folded like Chippewa

canoe, an old felt hat

crimson as pileated

woodpecker.  Belated

prophet from Yehoshephat,

brown Mississippi of decision!

He mutters a woman’s name

under his breath (same

as under his arm) : Marion,

Miriam, Magdalen... Jessie,

Juliet... Beatrice, Jeanne...

Natasha... each one

enclosing the other (ballet

russe).  Sacre du Printemps.

1913, at end of May.

Pirouette, grand jeté...

Juliet, sans seine.  Lamps

are going out all over Europe.

Hobo yet knots his woolly

safety net – the glory

of the Lord, letter & envelope.

11.2.18