SOFT GLANCE
On the high ridge of River Road
Henry seeks his throne –
little Sophie-chair (long gone
from her gazebo octagon). O Lord
Apollinaire of Poetry, what now?
Is the Great War ended?
Are the lads mended?
Have we entered the Third Aeon? No,
not yet, vows Joachim (1132).
When Eagle molts
to Coulombee, & bolts
from heaven like a swallow blue...
the eye of Providence triangulates
over an Isis-pyramid
of West Branch clay – hid
from Cahokia to now, he states.
Hobo slumps closer to the river, sound
asleep. He dreams of her,
who dreams of him – somewhere
over the Franklin Bridge (an Indian mound).
Henry, fragment of Osiris –
iris from Rhode Island –
sees her too. Sand
curves through silent Providence...
soft glance of Magdalen, absorbing
mourning (wrung like tears,
like rain). Those anxious piers...
Hart’s, John’s... frame her redeeming orb.
11.18.18
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