Junco, snowbird, little half-caste vagrant
speeding through the falling snow, suddenly
there – materialized out of the free-
fall of these drifting hexagons, a blur
slanting through the blur. Black on white.
A tiny unemployed butler, or former priest.
Tell me, sir, has the flock increased?
Have you reached 144? Not quite.
Snow lay all around the lonesome limestone house
of William Blackstone (buried in his calculations).
How long, Lord? How long? How many months
of weeks of years? Candles flickered, drowsed.
Even-tempered, under his Catholic Oak
preaching all summer long, watching his brother
Roger build up, out of one thing or another
his free-form city-state (zig-zag of a monarch
butterfly) - while for me, Junco, the domes
begin to levitate (in the Byzantine air). Where
we wandered among disheveled (Armenian) bare
gravestones. All the negative memories. Hums
there, with the absent bees, your undertone
(the kiss you reserved only for me) – and this
is the gnomon of a swarming shadow's missed
honey. Hungry. An irrational drone.
Evening. Snowfall (late light, light). An eye
at the rim of memory, like a sunset.
Everyman's. The film spools, reels out...
then a wave swells, fills like a sail. Aye. Aye.