So we hovered in Natasha’s buoyant hydrofoil
above that busy riverine flotilla. One all-human
artery... strong blue-green memory of Eden’s
streamy quatrefoil. Now, to the fiery coil
where all the waters, all these fleets are born,
from whence they’re borne, my comrade said.
Take up my lens. Note again that thread
of porphyry bisecting it – fine purple line
quadrated at one silver matrix, in the center.
Now find the Gate once more. I looked down
toward St. Louis – saw that 28-point golden
dome had folded back into one steely flare.
A whirlwind rotated between its prongs;
behind, across the Mississippi, I could see
vague outlines of a salience – the earthy
green of ancient mounds. Cahokia. Wrongs
shall be righted, Natasha murmured then. Look
now. Two upright figures stood on either wing
of Arch and whirlwind : Martin Luther King,
Black Elk. Suddenly in unison they spoke.
O blood-drenched Earth! Your hour of birth-pain
comes due. Arrogant, complacent Man! Dusty
white clay, brown, yellow, black! For vanity
& petty spite, you swallow up the grain –
split blue heaven from red ground! You snipe
left hand from right – your children’s violets
in tatters now! Hew to Eternity : an agate
gift! Dwell, do well – the door’s AGAPE!