A lonesome, solitary Sunday suddenly
hits you in the solar plexus. She's gone.
Has been, for a long time. Too long.
These mysterious Ides of February –
romance and governance, roses and
dead Presidents... Ash Wednesday, Lent.
Steadfast Roger on the hillside, bent
over his wayward Providence – we understand
his brooding wifely husbandry (O, his
Plantation) – fortify ourselves for love's
idyllic, homely spadework (Adam's bees'-
wax hexagon – his honeyed Eve, his bzzz).
And someone's going to have to write the true
definitive biography of Charles Abraham
Lincoln Darwin – whose native, ho-hum
DNA (typed in layers of protozoic limestone) you
recognize as Cherokee (high cheekbones,
cavern eyes)... slow passage to more
than India (human). Homo Erectus (soaring...
sore). Our glorious Code Napoléon (tombstones).
My limestone world (of frozen memoirs).
This patient art of excavation (fossils,
mementos) – your cross-cut blood-sample
(sand poured from hand to hand). Ours,
Almond. Where you bloom, off-season – rare
mollusc, or sea-wave (in the photograph).
An ordinary love-affair. Thy rod Thy staff
they comfort me... Thine eye (infinitely tender)