a poem for harry

if tornado's side
has burst open with fur
i will see you at the slide
in your traditional stripes
the long ribbons of your beard
dragging the earth
everybody knows
the thorns of roses
were once beards
but with their locks
pressed together like rhino horns
dragging along the seine
where Sanxingdui still holds
Vercingetorix surrounded
by Caesar in the holy cowrie
of the solar city
for us they are tobacco-colored stuff
cylinders with tufts of tangled string
at either end

worm zephyrs
while dried they remain alive
and only moisture will restore

what desire enters the cave
and what desire leaves it

if tornado is represented by a perfect cone
a series of perfect cones that stretch and grow
up from the middles of previous cones
then we have to wait on our own specific edge
for the one cone until another touches it
and then our weary wondered
striped bearded and thorny
worm zephyr rose might cross over
to the land of adzes
where the fods
wear no pants but still sing

to conversionings