Wedding-Jacket Flap

In night my breath turned often
as I burned with Christ’s circumcision

twisting off gold spun wheels
meeting Ungaretti’s precision

by a red tied bow solemn and burnt
At dawn came parakeet whistles

poisoning wishing out wine belew
rose purple of Lot’s boyhood fallen

beyond Leucippus’s teaching (air)
of encaved/divisible/atavistic pain

The 1975

The six day war was eight years old
The six million-us at least three decades

dead The elevators sweetly stupid to
not know when a sabbath bride had just

arrived and the Polish Pope with my father
with Reggie’s fourty-four making the noon-

bells of Ridge ring far into the fabled future