That Finnish carpenter, arch arc-welder, will he
ever be finished? & will some beehive grow
out of this footling litterbox, Henry's heave-ho
abbatoir – his slow spiel, his scribbly spelling-bee?
His lean-to stand-ins gather round, his fogged-in
foretop shrouding a flighty figurehead (always
one step ahead). Forthright RW, wise
William B.... wistful Hobo lingering astern.
Blackstone lifts a glass toward Byzantium.
He wants a rose window to shade his apple-
tree – layers of honeyed, leaded light (triple-
dense, Einstein-slow) – a palimpsest. Viridium-
lanthanum-oxide (caffeinated blend). Something
St. Louis might underwrite (if Queen B. signs on).
A lofted boomerang (earthbound, into the sun)
– high-wired for mobile stable (free-floating).
& there, from beyond the effaced curvature
of sea-wave domes, from that poisoned bowl
of empurpled shade – a microscopic smile,
bent by parallactic ray into toadstool square
(dour prophet-frown, immured in martyr-salt).
The angle of his rippling white beard, acute
as his one remaining eye – his humming note
(in surprising major key) only : what Walt
intuited – Whitman. How the miracle of many-
in-one (e pluribus unum) – its kindly singleness –
disintegrated, disinterred again – arose to bless,
in person, every one. Rose, once – arose, Henry!