Cyrus Cassells

Animula, vagula, blandula . . .
             (Little soul, charismatic vagabond . . .)

                —Hadrian's deathbed poem

  Fly from this cage, like a bird of a more winged world.

                 -Rumi


Retreating turncoat, little ally, tell me,  
What will you recall

Of the cypress-blessed earth's gravitas,
Of the jilted body's camaraderie?

Insouciant guest, more than the tangled,
Unsparing world,

Runaway bride,
With your kept-quiet lust

For God's fireworks,
Perhaps you'll garner

From a massive inner storehouse,
The match-quick memory of a cardboard

Yet weirdly imperial crown
Perched on a milliner's dummy,
           
The spell of impeccable white peaches
Hauled from fragrant Languedoc orchards,

The glimpse of a breeze-swept passerine
Heading south for sunnier Malta

In a brash swirl of sea and ilex,
In a quest for pine nuts and black cherries—

Freed from shadow-brokers, flesh, you're flight-ready,  
Vehement to learn (Animula, vagula, blandula . . .)

Emperor Hadrian's valedictory lessons,
To assess the bracelet of cities

You cherished vicariously and left  
As stainless, inviolate—
               
To salute gone-too-soon lovers,
Surrendered to swaying

Cemetery grasses
During the decimating years,

Marked by cell counts and hospices.
Even your own slim San Francisco Antinoüs—

Imagine he isn't plague-snatched,
But lesion-less, everlasting—

Soul, with your unlimited
Wingspan, your holy egress,

In concert with the sallying crow's
Go on,  

The galvanizing owl's farewell,
Sly "fingersmith,"

Unremitting rascal,
Filching a last communion wafer,

As if it were Maman's unforgettable
Holiday macaroon:

Oh, getaway soul,
You've been caught red-handed—

When the balmy breeze retreats,
And bound-for-glory clouds,

Crooner, love-maker, it's bitter to feel
The lie of the bullying sun's

Mock-embrace, the dispiriting hush
Of windless moments on the sloping,
   
Sun-blessed avenues and hills
Of the lyrical-no-longer city—

Listen, I loved a man who captained
A sporty, mint-green convertible

(Oh his greens were very green!)
With a manna-or-bust magic,

So I slipped in straightaway and wed
My far-ranging fool's quest to his:

Handsome sir,
What are you running from?

Turn your back to the front seat,
Dashing Xavier commanded,

So, without further ado, I stood up,
Raising my sleeveless arms

Under the super-subtle lindens,
As if to nab a glimpse

Of his invisible nemesis, his shadowy
Goliath in the distance—

Imagine, I worshipped a man
Whose soul was akin

To a firm but scalable mountain—
A kind of slapstick earl,

With an inquisitive owl's glance,
But the allure of conquerable worlds

And mast-rich seaports,
Of kestrel-swift wanderlust

Whisked him away—

I was a lieutenant to a move-along man
Whose enduring homeland was gilded

By a lucent coast    
And a much lauded river

Where even a bald-faced lie
Had the splendor of unblemished truth,  

But Time and the wind and the river
Took him . . .