1.24.2020

winter gematria




DEAD RECKONING

Henry drooped with the blues, his head
on his hand, his wings folded.
Gloom gathers the Gould
with something other than ghost dancing –

rustic farm implements, tongs
in a crucible of heavy rain.
He knows Great Congregation
= love x God+neighbor, yet... wrongs!

The prophet speaks goldenly of such
in his report (Jack
Joachim).  He saw black
where the red-squash bore would touch

his tender rib with a poignard – that son
of a coagulated sow! –
but he rests easy, now
in his little room, in the Forest of Ravlin

I reckon.  Jacques & Jules, Jack
& Jill, tumbled off the wall
& down the hill... so we all
fall down, sang the old buried hack

full of Fathom Fifth.  His vanishing pint
fled like a bat, through a gap
in his rainbow tooth; sap
dribbled from his dank sepulchre, his mint

of 43 years (32 + 11).  She was only 17
when she danced the tyrant-
tellerpoky little Calabrian haunt
who yet might spread her wings (sweet halcyon).

1.24.20

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