Public Republic

Gerald Yelle

Photo: aussiegall

China were a far better partner than this
Ferlinghetti of the brain, better than
Discipline’s twin sister party favors,
Maintenance and Flonase. They take,
on the one hand, the flexing of a wrist to
mean the same weak nod for as long
as the moon captures daylight in its halo.
And what does it matter how long it
lasts when an actor’s caught, his glass
wall breached, having cleared his throat,
saying: “Dearly beloved, kindly step
to the rear where ushers will guide you
to the nearest exit.” Even now bells
ring with the E PLURIBUS burning
of everybody’s UNUM, the finest hour
since the hypnotist showed himself
the “serviceable villain,” pulling levers,
rushing through the curtains, crushing
stumblers, convinced in the wings
and gangways that the heart-shaped
petal of the violet would shield him,
sitting in his moth-eaten shirtsleeves,
crucified virgin of a mother loving son.