In the primordial soup of midsummer,
in the thick green shade
the old and new transact their final deals.
Midair, indifferent ghosts wait for them,
pure patience, perfect as butlers.
Underfoot, the boardwalk groans with time.
I am a pilgrim, avid for the light
that some call blue illusion or even corposant,
but in this time of plague and gunpowder
my misbuilt ark lists starward under the triple weight
and the captain says we must jettison everything,
even ourselves, especially ourselves,
but how ?
Climb out of the hold
onto the deck
where what you scream into the wind
storms back into your face like ice.
Close your eyes, your last
and the water, bled of green,
Remember the sunny meadow
where we once prayed together, saying
lady bug, Queen Anne's lace and
O clemens, o pia, o dulcis -- ?
straight into the earth.