America is essentially the greatest poem.
There must be a map of hearing hidden here
somewhere. If we can only find the map,
we can find the lost explorer (someone
vanishes in jungle - jungle disappears
in her). That relic of remotest realm,
abandoned sapphire of the forest (Oz,
Atlantis) spurred the quest; now whose inroads
(squalid short-cuts) devastate the dream?
The map in the mirror, a matter of leaves
of shade above tree rings. Where your limbs,
Mack, truck with the garden, slumberous
(a Walter waltzing to the sound of Z).
Oro Pendula whispers, suspends. The weaver-
bird, she whistles while she works (a spell).
An alphabet of pilot, river, and Capella
("ship") : O fluent unison, tuned to deliverance!
Thanksgiving, hallelujahs in the hold.
And as the mast is to the vessel, so
the song is to the wilderness : an Orpheo
reformer (row, row, row...), a capillary
chantry, bold as old is young as blood.
Heartsblood, churning (stoked, steadily,
below). And now the pilot dances giddily
athwart the loggy junk his fingers (pre-skid)
understood : the current is his candor,
and the source is coursing through himself.
The map was a given, apparently : the vessel,
certainly, a coracle (an old box called Pandora).