Mississippi sundown. Meek
flock of cottonwoods
leans toward sand-
bank... listen to the river speak.
Noah’s raven criss-crossed the ocean
weaving black on blue,
salt over salt (sez you).
My splotchy gouache representation
wings away north, south... follows
Big Muddy to her delta
Breathes on clay (rows, rose).
This Inca bird, like a Cuzco condor
(or Marshall St. bridge
bald eagle)... no prison-
pigeon, but flight to the rondure –
a well of black water, with stars
in a lattice (for stories).
The Ghost, says Maximus,
prehends the insolence of wars –
lift up your hearts, she cries,
lift up. Paradise
is a habit of eyes &
hands, not formulae;
lips rim a coracle (of cedar
curve & silver plow)
so that you too may know,
my child – the Earth (from a star).