His head full of booze, regrets, & Shakespeare
& latecomer summer a long way off, when he leapt
across the snowbank path (heart deep in Deptford,
wi' old Sad Sack, Falstaff). He's buried there.
Bury the man in Resurrection Cimetière
th'empurpled writ bespoke, beforehand (counter-
signed by Caesar's notary). & he stepped his contra-
dance into groin of hurricane (contrarian
to the end). & he was turning, he was turning
toward the Chippewater (Hole-in-the-Sky);
whatever they say, he lived before he died.
& then he lived again, crd Mgdln (his burning
almond branch). A possum to the opossums,
she sleeps in the gradient of her unspoked
commonweal. Like the latest Al Freed – Free
at Last (near St. Louis Park) – in a Scandinavian
electoral smorgasbord (or free-for-Al). Wrasslin'
with temporal gravity, like a gnomic Einstein son.
Downstream a little from that Gateway quaternion.
Servant of servants (Memphis garbage men).
& the curious echoes of the names (in limestone
inscriptions). A sort of mnemonic harmony
of overtones – implicit, understated (gracefully
the glory of the Lord shone round about them, hon).
& the emptiness under the cranial dome (Shakespeare's
last sup of ineffable happiness). Only an emblem
of my Byzantine parallelogram (parabolic theorem) :
that the nature of love = the nature of the Father's
gentle disposition, meek & mild. & so forsaking
everything but Psyche-life, but life itself...
he'll wayfare toward the crossroad (milky surf)
& lift his Hobo-rood. To some'res. (Magdalen?)