For example : I'm moving to Minnesota in a matter of days. It's been a roller-coaster year, yet this Ravenna Diagram thingum has persisted, kept on keepin' on. Now - a few days before we leave, & in the midst of much pack-up anxious biz - the fourth chapter of the poem, and a big structural cornice, draws to a close, seemingly in a fairly-fitting fashion (how can I know).
I'm thankful for the poem time. I'm thankful for the moonshine of this little Ocean State.
This polished late October light.
Burnishes each diamond
of the backyard iron
fence. One survivor-cricket
churrs behind spruce (indomitable
busker). Over the rail
a wave of clematis still
surfs; the massive parasol
of luminous russet dogwood leaves
still braces (on its sturdy
mast) against a gusty
autumn breeze. Halloween in the eaves.
I’m leaving very soon. The golden
spider packs his poison-
bag, curls (frozen)
in a thread-vortex. I be beholden
to my Ariadne. In her hazel eye
the gold lambswool, yellow
Corn Maid poncho flow
into one clay design – pendentive sigh
of wild oats panicle (brown
elegant & neat
as many-rimmed Ravenna urn).
My host is flown. Like Stella Maris
over the ridge, at Swan
Point – pivoting on équinoxe
de printemps (April 12 it was
this year)... like Beatrice’s Florence,
born le 4 Juillet – or taut
Francesca, by her net
of Inca wool... ou sont les neiges,
maintenant? They’ll ride my splintered
coracle back home.
Or (gone threadbare) roam
my prairie west – O mulish cowherd
wind-wag, tickled to Frisco Bay!
Morning Star, look homeward
kind upon yon way-weird
son. Apollinaire, with calumet...
the wars is over, anyway
– wars in my old heart.
Ravenna’s where we start
again (light brdftprnt of Dante).
Motif of a sacrifice.
absolute). Not nice –
unless you reckon yet again.
The dogwood mast is creaking
in the slanting afternoon;
winter will be coming soon
for Hen, who gathers everyone
into his earthy tavern
(like a Grecian urn)
across far distances... (American).
dogwood (& spruce) on Fisher St.