Evan Kennedy Segue New York City February 2, 2013
XIV. Cantico Del Sole
Francis called the fog God’s creature
from fear and amity. Fire could speak
to me about how your kicks tried stamping
it out but I still wouldn’t know you
from Francis or those dead to law.
I am on a bicycle lowly yet manifold
in dimness. Francis called the dirt God’s
creature from tears and fealty. Beer bust
dances, the classics widely read,
our confraternity edged by death decades
ago in this town named after Francis,
from whom I don’t know you but harbor
promise. Francis called the wind
God’s creature from slyness and solace.
He sang through the state in the ’80s,
always an active river at his back. Fish could
speak to me about how your eager bonhomie
addressed the presence of their lives, but
I still wouldn’t know you from Francis,
those dead to law, or even the black bloc.
Francis called the moon God’s creature
though in shock and hunger. Facing ridicule
and wonder, he sang through town
and was mugged when mistaken
for a troubadour. It’s true that more poets
could speak to me about how your sounded
name soothes the sensations within
my dominion, but I still wouldn’t know you
from Francis, those dead to law, the black
bloc, or any of his other resemblances.
Francis called the sun God’s creature from
love, and the promise that his likenesses
would adopt this eponymous town.