Aug 292011
 

The idle angling
			of a watersnake--
loquacious and lungless
			through yellowing waters
faded, sulfuric
			of a hurried traveler's Chesapeake
-- through tums of evolutionary
			time still saunters.

Politicians, as limericks tell,
			are of a swift and similar species;
unchanging agile evil vile
			a Nepalese prince with an Eton smile
considers the cost of suicide
			the price of becoming a democracy.

Pelestinian flags
			on fallen Faisel Husseini
drape the dark Dome of the Rock
			while he's more leisurly laid beneath it.
Mourners wail until their faces congeal
			to unfeatured unsculpted stone,
blunted as snakes' in a pit.

Chinese warships in a watery ring
			lazily braid to enclose
the pale clarity and newsworthy brattle
			of independently little Taiwan.
Would cobras or roses be roses or cobras
			if they could be persuaded to choose?
Another day, another hour goes
			cold-soldered to the chain.

State Street bagpipes and banners
			play old Joe Moakley to rest;
dead as he'd lived, paraded,
			by cries and high casuistry followed,
down to the crypt and the Beantown dirt
			he lies interred with the rest,
another day snaked to the flow.

"All change as they die,"
			is the evolutionist's cry,
"and all ways wander unlost
			toward the one wild Great Way.
Each creature encircled
			beneath the infinite 'Ifs' of the sky
is trapped in the hydra of days."

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