More news from Providence

Epic poems measure themselves.  They have to, it's part of nature.  Like tree-rings, exactement.  This is squawk #2 from the prelude, the prologue, the opening gambit, the 1st pitch.

from Shakespeare's Head 


A snail inches through earth become clay –
twelve miles by twelve around in a circle. 
And Shakespeare's Head (anonymous oracle)
still stands (on the East Side) to this day.

Blind newsboy tin of happiness!
Measured phrases squaring off those domes 
boxed-in and feuding until kingdom come.
I'll hide my own head in your field grass.

Time waves the robins across the prairie.
Settle down, Eurydice, Persephone –
he won't be long.  Trumped-up harmony 
will bear him (bleary-eyed) from the library.

Garden behind Shakespeare's Head

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