The Haitian effect of stars
grinds the blue firmament
like a cable car by night.
transfixing energy.
One hears myriad tokens
falling into a collection box,
then the twitter of bells
before the trolley steps round
winds near Russian Hill
The night sky is a reservoir,
a cistern stored with disturbing
elements prickling the unknown
in a man.
To watch as life forms, more intricate
than lavender curls, so hushed their tones
produce melodies like "Castor and Pollux", "Leo",
"the Three Sisters", seizes any boarding pass
along the remaining train of thought.
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IL GIARDINO
Cloves on the table.
(jardin parfumel
are like ladyslippers
with the jargon
of their sweetmeats
preserved in
aromatic slabs
about a garden wall.
Spanish ivy
is the pastrami
of this terrace --
thick, white walls,
Hispanic style,
unite with prim elasticity
to quicken
Picasso's sunshine
like a ukulele
strumming the grave.
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EVERY MAN'S HAND
raised against them
hussars, cossacks, zouaves
the renegade janizaries and corsairs
in for an indeterminale stretch
assorted soldiers of fortune,
never-do-wells
or just low brows duelling crusts of bread
scarce precious little else
when for pennies more,
(Wellington's phrase)
the scum of the earth
enlists for drink.
Too harsh, I think, of
imagining the Foreign Legion,
kepis of scarlet
the near requisite haggard looks
moving in waves across the desert
pitting date palms with bayonets.
the occasional fellow ravaged by French pox.
Then dunes where water should be --
storms granulating blown particles
twice the perimeter of a camel train
from whence decent men become driven
(as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselves
with poor material,
loose flintlocks and cartridge belts
rotting to the touch,
The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)
stars big as pebbles in potato white
Napoleon before Cairo his soldiery and
ragged tents flapping like tongues
of pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)
on the run from Allah and sweet date wine,
their torpid hooves sound against rock
matching wits grown sluggish in still more drifting
sand.
Noon and blood purring
like a two minute egg
over and over
the spitting, curses
mandatory flies and sweat
trickling on sandbags
from manured lives
little to eat--
C rations a century away,
the good populace begrudging meals
to vagabonds and trash anyway.
See the last desperation
in classic terms
betrayed by finite trength
brisk elements raise the odds
a measly temperature climb,
a few more driving winds to stir the pot
animal suffering dancing
like stretched canvas on thin frames.
The leading roustabout unflinching,
waves a stony mutineer's salute.
And somehow it always manages dawn
and the heat of the day wicked,
oblong in an empty stretch
forever, it seems, before bullets
open graveyards
mow the brigand down,
take the corpse for its own
mummifying with precious hands
about the contours of her desert body,
and firm cleavage
oscillating between curvatures of
desiccation, blanket heat.
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