the mural crown

HIDDEN LIFE

This silvery light of a rainy day

in late December.  Neutral,

nested in its gray scale

along a standoffish Mississippi

(little Big Muddy).  Icons of vagrancy

are history.  Only

tell me, who is Tyche

now?  Who wears her mural crown of clay?

The mural crown is a martyr’s crown.

Seared semaphore of Liberty.

Tom, within his sanctuary

clocked by King Hank’s automaton.

& you, speechless ancient mother

of my tongue... Oaxaca pot

with 4 legs & 4 faces, hot

from kiln – my sis Jonah (there is no other).

A hidden life, in high green alps

of loving consciousness.

Where our union of Succession-

Restoration comes in great gulps

of transparency (over gnarled rivalries,

distempered lunacy,

frustrated tyranny...

Narcissus in the burnt oak trees).

All history now, Henry.  We drank

life’s Honigwein

with Weinsteins, in

torrid Odessa... felt unfathomable thanks.

12.29.19