Oriented to the center, then, and through
the eye of a needle ‒ threaded with junkyard
wool, black-white, grey… a cast-off loaded
with canards, castaways… your slander-
ship… your malady, milady (hubby-
hearse). & if I could mumble your tomb
open, little junkman's wing ‒ if I could hum
your name ‒ Red, Rube or Ruby?
‒ roseate as early raisin, ripe as grape
or turnip from heaven (purple-grey) ‒
I'd be home free. I'd be in Ithaca,
Itasca today ‒ I'd be ship-shape.
Only light, weightless light, Archimedean light
in a trice, through the eye of a bee.
Honey-light, glowing (you'll see, you'll see)
lifting a double-bass through brass fishnet
of wayward tears, years… (yours).
So we spin through the eye of hexagram-
hurricane, my dear ‒ 'twixt cherubim-
leavings, leaf-wings, pendulous
angle-bowers ‒ abeam every wandering
birchbark in creation. Drawing water,
bailing bale… rainwater, eye-water…
air & water & fire for the pottering
King of J (your ornery ancestor).
Who's coming back. Through that ring
of steadfast, bifoliate flame ‒ Love's singeing
Lincoln-leaf (O dove-cast mistress-master)