beehive hop melds drones


October in my spindly cedar octagon.
Oblomov in a quaint gazebo
waiting for his Olga, O.
Henry had an MRI today.  Beat.  Ochin.

His mini-RI, his Ocean State,
full of scrambled eggs &
mussels, canonical sand...
some Narragansett raving (will abate).

He can’t lift Juliet (or JB, either)
out of the bitter surf
with a pompous word, a mere
sniff to the wise.  Just take a breather,

Hen.  The heart is a mystery
who can plummet?  Purple
majesty amid all people,
8-ball in the Rabbi Shabbat sea –

where be wisdom be to found, Henri?
In love again with Heidi
or whole neighborhood, ey?
In Mendelssohn, where the bee-

hive hop melds drones to symphony...
where children laugh naturally
& Sophie will skip-to-me-
Lou through the live-oak gateway

immemorial... as toward you, gentes,
Jeannie, Juliet, Jonah,
the heartbeat (Shekinah)
skims near – overshadowy Benny Voluntas.


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