PAINFUL CORNS
Henry’s inching toward the center
of his poem – bright high gyre
like William Golding’s Spire
(splintered, keening, full of ire).
In the Cathedral at Rodez, we saw
its balsa-wood replica
(like seedling, or amoeba-
virus) – Jocelyn’s vanishing awe
lifted to depths of infinite regress
like San Francisco vertigo.
Yet it shall not be so
with you. Your realm is humbleness.
Your solar crown, a crown of thorns
your aureole a poor halo
picked up (after the show)
by crotchety vets (painful corns).
Somebody tell me where we’re going
with all this, Henry!
The acorn in an almond tree
makes not much sense; canoeing
(not a major sport in Italy) is
unlikely to resolve the fight
between the mining money’s might
& piping pioneers of wilderness
(attainted Oz). Henry dozes
in his miniature oak tree –
a mythological Charlie...
& will he wake? Check JB’s glozes.
6.29.19
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