Lanthanum 3.14


So we roll through the 4th, toward mid-July
past thundery rain, clouds, uneasy weather.
This ball of sod our bent frame (tether-
ellipse). As it was in the Middle Ages (sty

in the modern eye). Where the unknown soldier
(Corporal Everyman) rudely confronts one private
grappler-interlude, with cantilever-magnitude
of unknown origin (imaginary sister-

dove). She's waiting for him in the shade.
A little tree, mistreated by mankind, hidden
beneath her own scraped boughs (behind
your own eyelid). Before the ground was laid.

She could have danced all night. She was
innocent on countless counts. And they
were innocent once too : like the seal
of great Saint Louis, with the fleur-de-lys,

they leapt, honey-shot, before the throne
of old King Dagobert. Those were the days
of chopping off fingers, hounding the Jews
out of sight, out of mind (pinched monotone).

It's this seething summer-world... even ice
seems alien. Like my dream of the Gateway Arch
(tin from nowhere). So Noah's rain-angel parsed
a lurching earth. So his dove tacked once, twice

before she let that twig sail from her beak.
Your imaginary friend... the unknown soldier;
the witness (with the new identity); the volunteer.
Your neighbor with the limping limb (creak, creak).