St. Louis, 1812
In town, chimneys fall
like wasps’ nests
broomed from eaves.
The bricked streets chasm
into maws. Bells rang
as far away as Boston,
the papers claim, whole
forests dragged into
fissures, the big muddy
calved & stalling around
newborn islands, riverboats
adrift like hickory leaves
on the backwards current.
Some say Tecumseh has put
his foot down, and who
could blame him. But I ask
if it may be only the earth
straining to snare her trail,
that promised, unending
orb she must keep, wobbling
as she goes, covetous
yet of the light’s leap.
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