Wide lonesome chord of milk-train horn
across an Osage plain.
Lilac & star, American
crowd... shy bird calling the not-yet-born.
The microcosm of a Maximus
is like a walnut
brained by teeth. That
worn brown face, in Omaha bus
lounge, spoke quietly. “I am Dakota.
I’m a man.” The poem
lifts a sign toward home,
that’s all. The sum of Ariadne-
maze, malevolent eye of Minotaur
is in the skin-swirl
of your fingerprint. Roll
back into the vault then, sailor –
shed each blow of monster violence
until you find the mild
eye of the typhoon-child –
immaculate origin of Providence.
I see her hero stepping through the gate
of stone, one hand held out
on a wave of love. Light
scout, scouring the root of hate –
defanging that lamprey of predatory
malice, hostile cruelty –
injustice clamped on history.
With Coke & Blackstone whispers : Now be free.
India Point, Providence