RED FOX
Under the silver shoreline of late cottonwoods
the quiet gray clouds
the dry river weeds (wounded
with scattered sumac) Hobo broods
as always. Trying mightily to bring it all
into focus, under the aegis
of an ineffable Isis-
eye (black West Branch granite, under veil).
Seated on her throne, standing for a Mind
of grace. The poets’ doctrine
as against the matter-men –
lambent clay mutter-shape (FOR BLIND).
Johnny, we hardly knew ye... Iona
clover, twirling like a dervish
in the shadow of an Irish
Tyche. Liberté, coulombe, Columbia...
Jeanne, Jonah. Up from pacific waters
of an Ocean Rose, an Okeanos
Newport oakenship – ceremonious
wedding (chaste prow, beyond all wars).
Like scrape of diamond on a coal-black
door. Marking your graffiti-
passage, Henry Contumely –
he hath entered the realm of signs (alas,
alack). You search the scriptures, lil Red
Fox – but do not come to ME.
Swift as cottonwood leaf
her sun-heart passes... (Dion-Isis? Fled.)
10.2.19
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