Sat By Old John Cabot

led by th’swooping few,
shriek songs in called response.
Here’t began;
here’t’ll end.

Gaze o’er, oh stoic,
statuesque, ‘n
wait a while a-wond’ring:
where, in wand’rings
riverlong, thy vessel
vanished wakeless?

The benches ’round
sit closer yet,
all moved but for
th’older two –
ah, closer then
my pen can quill
its inkwork, wakeful way…

Crack cobbles, mossy mud
‘n cigarette stubs, strewn.
Blow gentlesoft, pandemic breeze,
‘breast an unop’n’d tomb.
Cry chorus, calling cresting
waves of undulating sound.
Watch, oh silent Sunday morn’,
for blood-congealed crown.

The Aten, apexed
in the white-shrouded blue,
tips toward its phoenix-fire descent.
Here’t ends;
here’t’will begin.

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