JAPANESE NOTE
Down by Mirror Lakes, in Mendelssohn
Henry collects the silver
trading cards of a younger
self. Still innocent (the future Hobo-man).
In that Providence springtime,
when we were setting out.
Pure Japanese note
of your own childhood (high chime
of Tokyo folksong). Your Florentine
round pallor, papery
sheepglow (Butterfly).
Who knew I’d be the priggish Pinkerton
of Rensselaerville epithalamia?
Til that blindfolded boy
waving a Yankee flag (say,
can you see?) – sows stony drama...
Puccini’s on the turntable, at Amiata.
Her spectral Iris-wings
loft LIBERTY (to thee we sing)
unto this microcosm of liublyu stigmata.
Yet, perhaps... we are Hagia Sophia
with a million eyes.
The crucifixion of surprise
curves down, humbled with apatheia
– still time, still time, to turn
from the spent spirit
to that glad esprit
reflecting oui (edging Ravenna urn).
11.18.19
