Like a brown wren building a nest
with twine camouflage,
or a Joan in the Stone Age
on her inexplicable quest
to sketch the lineaments of splendor
(milky star-field in a barn
or Jason with a ball of yarn)
– how the sea calls Jonas under!
The booming surf his Book of J,
the figure on the prow
with heavy eyes... mild Io?
coaxing him to low brown clay
in gloom, beneath an ancient bridge...
where a rose may lie.
An olive shade skims by
overhead (a palm sweeps its edge).
Between bullhorns, he marks the twain.
Gaunt Maximus, in Colchis,
ancient of days (his
beard like a fleece of milky rain)
burbles an almond-scent breeze
he feels, not sees... melting
aria of everything,
snow-knot of spring (Persephone’s).
Like high sea-gates in sunlight, in salt air...
feathers of jasper & bronze
filigree one true coin’s
moss-green (Lincoln mite... kind fare).