SNOW WHEEL
A little snow meanders down in Minneapolis
to cold November earth.
Guillaume, prince triste of mirth
was lowered from his balcony in Paris
two days before the Armistice.
Grandpa packed up his guns
one last time, near Verdun.
Spent rulers carpentered their peace.
Sacre du Printemps set the stage.
Russkaia Neva-sacrifice
summons her apotheosis –
leaps for the holocaust of banal rage
mounting to self-consuming poshlost peak.
Apollinaire was there
that night (under the sulfur-
flare, the guttering of Belle Epoque).
Grandpa field-marshaled the parades
on Armistice Day. Lafayette,
we are here... the old print
over the dinner table (Revolutionary shades
trippin’ la gigue franรงaise, at Mt. Vernon).
My ghosts are here now,
in November snow.
The Rio fleuves inexorably on
down to St. Louee, New Orleans.
Jeanne spins with Jessie
to their Stagger Lee...
my snow wheel hums, Rose (oriens).
11.10.19
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