Out of gray matter of clouds & sea,
matter of Bran or of Bretagne,
slow combers of the brain
surface a fresh conception... see
your own shadow cast by sun
on flesh-tone limestone –
hear the whispering drone
in wave-beats from an unseen iron
spring. Echoing, the king must die...
as the palimpsest of legends
from which everything depends
layers the storm with its pearl panoply
in coats of gray... & the first murmur
of the galaxies is almost
silence... & the gray ghost
of Jonah wheels one palm-feather
through the circumference of Time...
& a slight gray thread
drawn from Ocean riverbed
dangles in a cat’s-cradle (a smiling
rhyme) – emblem of unbreakable
immortal grasp of Love...
as one sea-breached dove
wings its immaculate cable
from far-flung farfalla world
to world (your only monarch).
O cedar-scented arc!
Almond diamonde – O salty pearl!