WING-BEAT
The American poem makes do with what’s
right there. Like a penny in a well
or Peto trompe l’oeuil.
Reminiscences of 1865… hook for hats
on an absinthe wall. Unlike electricate
sweet Alighieri, burbling Italian
honey-rhyme into his Pythian
pylon – a vertical refulgent ziggurat,
as opposed to our stretched-horizontal
(catenary) system of safety
nets (dangling from Frisco Bay
to DC). Quipu knots of Neanderthal
design – z-twist, s-twist in a 3-ply
twine, spun with dry grass
or pine bark from Abri du Maras
anchoring light matrices of solidarity.
Ah, nested Rose of Dante’s alta fantasia!
Here lies a homely Providence
cresting seven hills, dense
with ignoble Henry’s disjecta membra.
Plain facts of what happened, what was
made manifest in clay. Bearing
pinned-up mementos (sprung
Ford’s Theatre tickets… Jimi Hendrix
poster?) – cornered in a coign
of copper maize, a corn
maze. Dropped in a forlorn
well off North Main St. – least coin
*
of Union provenance – silver Penny’s
golden meaning (Love
welded to treasure-trove…
chaste equilibrium of all equalities).
The gift that unfolds at the heart of things –
Francesca’s golden poncho (Peruvian)
spun at Sheep’s Clothing (on Wickenden)
for Dave the California bard (who springs
from Rhody roots himself). Gift
that is already there in the earth,
shining quietly… an Ocean mirth
salted with grief & everlasting life.
In the heart of remorse & gratitude
rose memories well…
the flaming throne planted in Hell
transmuted to Paris park-bench habitude.
I know whom to thank for this Rose Jubilee.
Stony Magdalen, in Galilee
rolled away, set free
the Rabbi of a rescued Julie-bee. Recovery!
He was already gone, but she showed us
the way. & the catenary
curve of Argo’s aerie
twinkles with lights, up there – a million eyes
suddenly flash joy from blue-black sky
pouring Milky Way & Ocean Stream.
La vida es sueño – life is a dream;
the wing-beat of Thunderbird only a sigh.
4.14.20
sketch by Michael N. Gould
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