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three hundred and eight words for the son of thunder. and when, upon st catherine's heath, do we dare meet again? on anne's, or emily's, or fleance's waxwinged, charlotte's harried, web?... but wait! flies lindbergh through the eastering sun, or snag his healing righteous wings on crosswinds breathed by mountains in the night?... yes, wait, for eight-and-hundreds-three of words do no da vinci make. nor he, unmade, his ornithopter cause to sail black-rigged, cliff-clear, heath-hovering through a kittyhawk dawn bronze-fleeced and dry while roundabout-and-not-a-drop-to-drink affianceds fly and barrel-rolling banquo's boldly bank… hail to thee, and every glamorous cloudburst be upon your unumbrellaed cinderellaed jack-o-lantern. damned be him and damned be he: may sons of thunder blessèd be? accused, arraigned, condemned those are who spurn the rock to kiss the star and hail and hail and hail to thee, appropriating destiny. in thunder, lightning, reign you still, pandemonic gristle-mill… but, barber-basined knight erroneous, keep the vigil, burn your books: don quixotic cardbox vestments against these post-socratic crooks… and reign and reign and reign thou meekly ever, sweet heir of dulcinean weather…

SO THIS IS WHERE THEY ROOST?

so this is where they roost? between the pages
of our m'aidezs and our cold july,
in the unyoung plumage of their ungreyed ages:
anni nostri sapientiae.

HER RED-FLUSHED FLIGHT

[for isebeau, 17 june 08]

no god distributes party favours at
her thirtysomethingth, poets only write
their frailties. all there is is chance, and that
endows the lizard with the knack of flight.

ALLE GODEN ZIJN MIJN BONDGENOTEN

another cannon-cart, another dirge:
jij weet misschien niet eens ik zing voor jou.
another vincent fallen at the verge
of daylight. let the paparazzi know

but keep unlit, until we've rid the rye-
stalks of our stalker (one more thaler tagged
for one more dismal day), the salesman's eye...
give theo what is his. this body's bagged.