APPLE PIE
On the cusp of another Ides of March
plague wracks the Republic.
Snubbing his soothsayers, slick
Julius the 4th tees off a crumbling arch.
Henry Hollow glimpses Fenris in the mirror
coyotes laughing in the doorway
the delicate gyroscopic orrery
of light & dark about to shatter –
shards of church & state, the glare
of Lucifer the puppet-master
dark Leviathan off-shore
a wilderness of the sea (whale Jonah’s lair).
But it shall not be so with thee,
you murmur to me…
O
irrational Archimedean constant
transcendental root of unity.
Mild logos of a fisherman, a Fisher
King, fish-man… your hook
one Magdalenian smile – her look
from nocturne-cave of milky… where?
Before the granary-empire, before
domestication of the slave –
beyond star-winking nave
or curve of Galla crypt (Ravenna lore);
the ratio of infinite circumference
to one straight line.
Guillaume’s trompette marine.
Thanksgiving apple pie (in Providence).
3.14.20
