FEATHERED WHEEL
The king is carrying his cross
wearing his crown of thorns.
Only his mother mourns.
The restless crowd is at a loss.
So history plays out
on broken banjo string –
scratchy LP spinning
over & over the tethered Scapegoat
Song. A narrow beam of rust-
red copper, through shade
of rock. Copperhead
of light. Serpent mouthing dust.
Tan sand (some Navajo camouflage).
Everyman, eaten
by ants. Has-been.
Hobo, dreaming in a stream-montage.
Nobody. Only air, flashing
like feathered wheel –
Thunderbird heel?
Lo, him – Kingfisher, splashing.
In the clay matrix, Morning Star
pirouettes in Paris
for Apollinaire. Pax
lounges with Liberty, while from afar
twin pillars of a temple rise
in unison – an azure
octave, lifting her
amid dew-glittering, sea-breathing sighs.
8.10.18
