Good Friday moon came round somehow
on the first day of spring this year.
My little swirvy Frisbee-sailor
navigates toward deeper waters now.
Like that babe in Nile-reeds
in a curved mosaic. A very slow
circle eddies in the stream... she'll row
(backstroke) whence her spring proceeds.
And there's a courier pigeon (camouflaged
in gray cloud) with a scroll copper-wired
around one leg - some napping friar's
hieroglyph - threefold dreambird montage.
Her dream a melted timepiece, burning coal.
The vision of exhausted Jonah, cornered
in Leviathan. Your end is mine (last word
in submarine? - aground). He's calling
Elijah. Yet, there - (glinting
so faintly over collar
of coroner) - a dove, a dove! Far
across curve of everywave... ting,
ting... sea-bells ring... heard everywhere
at once. As the moon lifts ocean water
toward the source of all Victorias (the
waterfall, the reign of reigns) our cruiser-
nut carries each wight upon his keel
(Joe Nobody, a milkman in the morning
tinkling across the sky). Hear the milk train
moan - a miniscule echo revolve (its creed).
3.21.08 (Good Friday)
& so begins part 4 of Fontegaia. 10 yrs after Stubborn Grew.