A hint of fall now in the restless breeze.
The monarchs gather at the milkweed pods
out on the prairie. A wave of goldenrod
will see them off, on their prodigal progress
toward Mexico hemlocks. Psyche, the shy
white cabbage-moth, will watch them go.
Ariadne, holding her empty thread, will know.
Her prince (a premonition in the summer sky).
& summer ghosts will reunite, in a mossy jar
of myrrh. As if the chronicle of last year's book
turned green, a metamorphosis... the crooked
bull-char in the concrete floor suddenly
stood sheer (ellipsis of a morris dance
or Avon puzzle-ring) & beamed a rude circle
like cartwheels of Vladimir – sailor-seal
of Abram's petrel Hen (his Gateway trance).
The lake in the dry pool, like a late romance...
the water from the sky... the reign of some
magnanimous Prospero... Ariel's crumb-
path, out of peculiar woods... the leaning lance,
the a-historical nonsense, the anachronism
of stubborn, infantile, unremitting love
(that will not relent)... Shrove-
tide will bring him to the honeycomb
of Everyman's cell – the ghost of his father's
father's father; his mother's white hair (one
stray thread). Such flimsy evidence! Where
is the grave, now? Where my B-mine gardener?