A moody, gusty, late-sprung day in Providence.
Unsettled air. Not ominous exactly – tense,
preoccupied... or is it only me? Whence
cometh this foreboding prescience?
A mind of patchy sail, pulled here & there...
pieces of some scrambled anagram, flung
jigsaw maze – scattered, unsolvable. Unstrung
riddle-song snagged in folding dentist’s chair –
the Higher Consciousness! Blindspot in mind’s eye,
shadow just behind you now... king’s conundrum
for a jester’s toy. Let’s play! OK.... Loom
tall St. Louis into T.S. Eliot (so cloister’d, he)
– then tie the remainder with a silver cord.
Now say what saintly eu, unique & solitary,
sheathes his horn within a maiden modesty?
The truth’s not of this world (Étoile du Nord).
Our ball games pivot on a pointless point.
I saw a floating Rock of darkness – limestone
higher than I am. Infinite facets, slanting, shone
like shady diamond. Inviolable Heiligeist, anoint
the Lamb with clear gemstream, beside the city
of JM (144 wells echoed). A raven-wingèd man
drew near, declared : I once was Wm. Blackstone;
I have a new name now – Black Elkstone. Charity
bled me; Wisdom led me; I panned the motherlode
of my soul (poor costly everything) right here :
deep cosmos-cradle of the six directions... clear
pure lanthanum-node. My windy Rhody road.