WELDED KEYS
The old words climb from the well of time
like a Norway spruce,
aquamarine – set loose
like fiery needles from the flame
of Psyche-Liberty (breaching
Columbia, rose-grey
dauphin). Light spray
from Ocean’s breathing-hole – the sting
of Cuban salt. Strange emissary,
stranger in the land,
your phantom clock-hand
gravitates toward Harper’s Ferry –
ticks back, between slate gray
clouds, the frozen sword
over its chessboard hoard
(gold poison-cup, primed to betray
the Union). Carlsen’s hesitation
in hamlet-limping lines
of Sabbath silence... Martin’s
magnanimous memory... the unknown
veteran, shrouding a still-life
Lincoln penny (pinned
atop his heart). Sound
heard in Ramah... Rachel’s life-
saver, bobbing Caribbean blues.
Queequeg on welded keys
surfacing velocities
Atlantis-radiant... bright jasper hues.
12.1.16
"Reminiscences of 1865", by John F. Peto (Minneapolis Institute of Art)
