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2004-04-03
Francis Joseph Spellman
B. 5.4.1889 Whitman, Mass. / D. 12.2.1967 New York City
Unknown
My agrarian God
you smell
of grains fermented
gummy woods twice-burnt
and beeswax chilled and hoarded.
I was hanging on your stoop
I was calling you and getting your machine
I was wondering if you thought your �No Menus� sign would really work
and if you knew your tape was full
then why
when all at once you pulled up in a cab
the back seat was full of your robe-swirl and fly-away effulgence; meaning
to get the door for you
I stood.
The taxi pulled away.
I still carry your picture:
an oblique view into the bottom of a teacup
where overnight has drawn a sugared bulls-eye and a ring.
Consolation Site: One touch of Venus