Solomon Foot of Middlebury
Steered the incorporate body to be free
Through racketing clamour and dreadful din
During the war, the wages of sin.
He taught me, hair white as proverbial ghosts
To reckon with, grapple with, hellish hosts.
The grey photographer, midst the dead
With his kit of ministerial red
Wafts peripatetically there to here
‘Two bombings we will have this year’.
The queen in fine pink, porphyry
Like a corpse beneath a cherry tree
Laughed a mad little laugh with a damasked tone
Deserting Cincinnaty the throne
Perched in the rafter of John Adams’s barn
On the holy isle of
Lin Tai Yu the vermillion pearl
Indolent in the sacred whirl
Ceremonial yet profane
Decanted the ichors from her brain...