Siamese Triptych

In the twilight cave
the Gill Man sulks into the water and sinks
deep towards the bottom of the lagoon,

searching for the scent
of that intriguing creature
which blessed these waters once.

He stretches one arm out,
pulls back on the clear liquid;
stretches the other arm out,

pulls back on the clear liquid,
propels himself in life.
Forward, forward,

though to him only the present matters.
Robinson throws peanuts
at the Central Park elephant,

more leaves than people inhabit the streets.
A brown GI returning from the war
has brought back a German bride.

Robinson stares at the curves,
her dress indicts him,
animal instinct makes us animals, he growls.

Fish, fowl, man or Amazon creature
governed by the laws
which don’t obey the laws.

Pigeons own the Chrysler Building,
pigeons own the Empire State,
leaping from great heights to great heights.

Robinson, his head down,
walks out of the park,
unmoved by ancient, burning Hindenburgs,

unmoved by the dead bodies
someone piled high on Omaha Beach,
frying Japanese still surrender their smell.

The hair on his arms
equals or surpasses Audie Murphy’s acts
of heroism and hate.

The creature’s battle-wounds have healed,
but Robinson’s wounds have turned into open sores,
his melancholy fights off infection,

and now, humans retreat from him,
huddle in doorways, run into buildings
where darkness lights their way.