Even in this performing spring the air appears

to sort itself in circles, as the light culls

dust in Maelstroms made by devils.


In the widening circle of these nucleii,

in the vast and perfect miracle

of the galaxy, a cyclonic eye


of human making splays,

through the displaced breeze,

its devastating haze.


Even in this perfect spring

the atmosphere is laced

with helices and scattered wings;


even on the best of days

it rakes the waste and spatter

of the sun to raise


whorls in the wind and leaves,

those spirals of dark matter

and accreting griefs,


an entire century fading

in the looping rips

of tidal surge parading


down the lavish April sky,

while the fate of feet and lips

is scraped from flowered shade


to lie, terrible and drained,

unless on the gutted street,

stations f the angels lamed


by recurrent sounds of hell

in this facsimile of a place.

Today nothing is the same:


color leeches from the Charles;

summer washes off the faces

of swaying river shells


whose racing sheets are furled,

where sun is driven on the rails

and spirit withers in the night,


while our pitched and splintered world,

dying, shivers with the sails:

nothing is today as pure


as buoys tossing on the harbor waves:

floats that made the moorings sure

look today like shaking graves,


dyed in twisting shades of red,

the boomerang of time and space

newly risen from the dead.



April 16th-28th, 2013