The Pride of Williamsburg
All the scholars concede giants.
Monarch Nephilim may survive,
at least their bones, and why not
I? My breath snatched away,
beneath this huge mastodon frame –
the mastoid process is the carriage.
At last Williamsburg is suddenly swept
away by time, New York
teaming the carriage of my faith
with enormous showstoppers,
stopping even perhaps my heart?
For the history museum cracks me
like a fossil egg, my cold sweat, my
curious eye, the fantasy of ancient
universal power, the magisterial Hand
of the Living One I recognize,
where the heads of the sauropods,
like shoe horns; I climb step by step
up the ladder of their ponderous grace.
They are deft zeppelins
whose height in naked faith,
appears with no wig in the clumsy
windless exhibition hall.
Here no breath against the page,
no cubit, sterling, sage,
inside these locks I am fine, mounted
upon the sauropod, mounting screws,
a lab of plaster. Some day my frame
known resting in beauty,
the A train the same, Strayhorn,
and sterling fortitude for love.