Was that time for the remaining seven
To congregate: Columbus Day. One was
Not to mention Spain, gold, native abuse,
The Mariner’s deep red hands or his not
Reaching India, rationing sherry
For dead reckoning to a western beech.

Regaining course, the Santa Mari
Of this day was the same as ’24,
That ’70s coy pinup (sliced scalene
By three scissoring streets) in full display,
Its barbered lawn, its brawny steel front door,
Lightly opened by Ani’s quick, watchful

Hand and hug and greeting and fair warning
Of the sunken living room floor—very
So, so 70s—and not yet filled in,
Built over, tightly caulked and made a pool;
But, one forgets, there’s one of those in back,
Gallbladder sized or some other organ. […]