Late summer evening, pensive September light.
Persistent mute suspended minor seventh
of distant railroad horn. Amaranth,
goldenrod. The pussy willow (plucked, worn out).
Autumn is a labyrinth of earthy dreams.
Of prairie earth, grown vaster than the sea.
& Henry huddles with his traveling three –
Hobo, Roger, William B. – where the beams
of his wind-wagon meet the mast (pining).
In the cradle of his longing, the log cabin
of his ghost brought low. Some Sinbad
marathon, spun by Scheherazade (declining
favors – still, persuasive). Here, a ruddy
Irish monarch – there, an Armenian butterfly.
The tale spins by itself, unstoppable top. Why?
It's gravity, at the edge of the bloody
corner, mate. Checkmate. Crossroads.
Where husk of Siberian cicada meets
the tracks, & Theseus blunders blind toward
Chartres... where Berryman hears Beethoven-chords.
Track 132. The jittery greenhouse overhead
like a turtle-sell, translucent... where are we?
Petersburg? Coutances? Minneapolis? Saint
Louee? We're near the Queen of the dead
bees, the phantom said. Henry's Dove
Inn (Chicago watercolor – gray, with loops).
The bird purrs in the railroad trumpet – whoops
– 'at's the spirit. & this was only Ariadne's Cove.