DIVERS STARS
Brune muscle-bound mansion of J.J. Hill
on the crest of Summit Avenue
surveying the valley where two
rivers join – where the railways spill
from St Paul to Seattle (Great
Northern empire, spread
with iron & steel). O head
taskmaster, engineer, we celebrate
Twin Cities’ renaissance beneath
your wood-burnt work desk
(Richardsonian Romanesque) &
spiderweb of railroad ties (gold sheath
of Gilded Age gloaming, applied
so lovingly above
the banquet table). Move
across the river, where they hid
Rez Cemetery on the bluffs.
There Berryman is buried
too (J.J. expired
on a May 29th). Henry still huffs
& hovers overhead. Clouds bank
their gray matter in shapes
like dolphins, angels... apes
ape each other, rank on rank
while divers stars shed Ocean light.
From Romanesque to Gothic
unison, one fractured brick
serves as keystone – wound tight
*
as Daphne or Coatlicue
rooted in broken clay
await another day
when Churnagogue stirs milky
honey & Apollinaire
attends his Rite of Spring
uncoiling everything
like smoke from Calumet (a Bear?).
Old poison lingers in the verbal mold.
The Sack-a-Jew sad cruiser way
shone from St. Louis ‘til today –
Lewis & Clark & our New World (behold
the Old). Shoshone shone her pilot
smile, O Sacajawea.
Solid light, our Bona Dea;
stars’ Primavera (bolting nut
arced out of nought). She dances there
in place of sacrifice –
her graceful feet efface
the facade over the serpent’s lair;
she is the Jonah from the Ocean depths
who croons grey wavy shapes
for blind eyes leaps
with a Nazir tambourine & skips
a cartwheel through the broken glass
spoking a Morning Star
within that tender rose O far
Pacific angel door lamb-glowing Mass
3.28.17
