The Giantess lay on her side in Mayan shade,
beside the Moon River, that flowed and flowed,
immense and sensual, across the road
one evening. Inconceivably begot, not made.
There my taut and waterloggy coracle
turns back upon itself (a-bob like putty
on a potter's carousel). Her knotty
Egyptian-acacia ribs were barn-like,
barnacled with wayward fables; her bow
a figurehead rigged like a palanquin
to the nether shore, with a green
spring bough. There were no vowels
stored in bulkhead, hold or hull - it was
a primitive scene (lumped in my granary).
And on the Last Day, so it will be,
each orbiting heart: tinder and resinous.
And drawing to a close is drawing near.
Spun round a faery mizzen, seesawed
sea-salts paddling acorn-caps raveled
a crowing cupola, on Homer's shore -
frost-veterans of bardic doom saw lightfall
filter through that complex tent, a whisper
lapping slow against each tender pier (their
uniondom pealed like a Russian bell).
These iris blades on spokes will find
your own heart also, giant sleeper.
Out of your own tiered granary, dear
Guadalupe (Teotihuacan host-figurine).
- & heading back to the jungle?