de grasse

as,
like gleaming rochambeau rounding
the wide bay, standing in a

renaissance portrait of
brilliant silver,

he bound to his
bougainvillea ship.

like those times, when the harbors
about savannah had forested
in a leafy blanket,

no strong
winds, not
even the
fabled hurricane
bound away the
charleston shore-

so,
standing amidst the
newer air,
while with nelson-eye the silver
rochambeau stood,

stood wide-
white laughter, he who
would

not leave the capes, the prizing saintly ship about the
saline bay-

and on shore the georgian
monuments rose like summer
tides-

he breathed the silver air,
and embraced the tall stately figure,
in his braided land epaulets, his
silver-shadowed rochambeau

who laughed,
as he, asthmatic breath receded to the
rush of impulsive september (about the bay, the capes),

smacked upon the small
back of novel rights-of-man-of-land-in-God

a silver
shadow of
confused flags. "mon petite general". the saints are far off.
and no one
knows it is waiting.