4.30.2019

speaking the poetry of dense & difficult




GOLDFINCH APTITUDE

In the late afternoon, old Emperor
Henry the Ghoul lies abed
beneath the wallpaper’s red
roses (spread by his late father

for his mother).  The sun is not a god
nor is his Uncle Ez,
despite the pitchmen on the rez.
Frayed tribes will not succumb; Benito’s rod

is not benign, nor ever shall be.
The motorized dream, from
vortex of survivor-shame
after the panoramic slaughter-sea

of Ypres, Somme, & Meuse-Argonne –
like a neoplatonic fantasy
of utopian autocracy,
with phantom Isis Medusa-icon

wailing like siren out of Empyrean
over the shattered spectacle
of your culture-chronicle,
Ezra – so who shall have the succession?

The special providence of a sparrow...
the goldfinch aptitude
for simple gratitude.
& when the Eternal comes, you will know,

Osip (along the axis of the earth).
The covenant of love
donated from above
for good – so we might share it forth.

4.29.19

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