If I murmur a little in your direction,
little almond tree, lessel
mandel baum, it’s only
because you’re a little evergreen
in my heart – still leaving, leaving
from the great ash mast
where you still last, & last...
as if lashed to a breathing & grieving
breeze. Maxims, beatitudes
sing through its rigging
from Maximus, Boethius)...
its compass just a simple carpenter’s
level’s bubble-eye –
a kayak reciprocity-
needle, trained on bent meteor’s
immaculate arc (unbroken smile
from sky to Ojibwa midway
way). Immense gravity
waves emanate from a small gray pebble,
tossed off the stern like a Jonah-
pigeon, never to return –
Raven or Betyl-stone
(anchor sunk to seabed zone).
A pyramid of limestone glyphs
guards fair mum-tomb;
your skipper’s Sophie-doom
from living lips... (forever flips).