in the end zone


In the shadow of a song of songs
the anthems are always major
chords.  Mendelssohn... (our
home in Hopkins)... everyone belongs.

Tonight the rival city-states,
the patriots, blow
ram’s horns.  O
say can you see... big potentates’

eyes dilate... Vergo rolls out
Hail Mary feint (over
Washington Monument) –
Crazy Horse Rushmore... Touch-

stone!  The transfixated crowd
explodes.  Ghost dance
in the end-zone – Lance
Galahad will take the shroud!

The mob desires to crown a king,
a king of everything.
Sponsors oblige, with bling –
the glittering circlet is a diamond ring

for nubile Woody Berge Ouvrante
(Cheerleader from the Bronx
Will Marry Uncle Onx
Next Year).  Preview this fête galante!

Apollinaire heard the cicadas
droning in the oak –
of how the wind spoke
dry coracles of wheat to Colchis


& the streetlight in the snowy dark
zones a frozen cross
against the pavement (Loss
for Brady : Bells Will Boom for Belichick).

We’ll laugh about this tomorrow
(or maybe in 2020).
How the crowd, honey,
decides – & doesn’t care, somehow.

They insist on sacrifice – Sacre
du Printemps, ma chérie.
Tiptoe to thundery
finale... just before the war (nacre

& objets d’art, Guillaume).
Leap to the metronome
over the Metrodome,
Sophie – you will survive this doom

of frightened infants in their uniforms;
Thin Blade Societies
& Rudra puberty
sodalities... unconscious norms

(they know not what they do).  Thread
woven for a future prince –
hearts, purple sequins
imprint Valentine wreath for his head;

he’s singing of an anti-kingdom
where his anti-father
(shedding all that bother)
chords an unquenchable welcome home.


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