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 dowries
swishing 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 Pared 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