Lanthanum 2.2


The bower-bird piles up deep layers, there
in a Polynesian jungle. Two plus two
make eleven thirty-two – you know
cerebral Darwin would be sure to square

accounts. Missing mourning lonesome Lincoln
too. The Milky Way. Everybody
would have gathered at the well to see
the newlyweds draw water. I mean

a universal limestone holds such contraries
in sedimentary suspension; a milky haze
floats over the river; chilly tentative days
(between winter and spring) make me crazy

but not crazy enough to run away.
When love swells the shuddering spinnaker
the mast holds firm – a twelve-thousand acre
cinnamon basket (for Valentine's Day).

In Rome, randy revolutionary crowds
go roaming around... but we're in love,
and love transmuffles everything. Shove
that poet out of the way. Man the shrouds,

me hearties, before the mast tears itself
to matchsticks
. Into the sea. New World
. We loved the old limey (dropped
everything, fell from bridge). Ralph,

or something. Kid fallen into milk
(into th' abyss). Or Minneapolis.
Come on home, kid. Thus
the way of a cussèd raven. (Couth. Black.)