No estoy yo aqui que soy tu madre?
The spiral molluscs from Precambrian seabed
in the limestone facing by the door
remind me of you; the bent lyre
of the cottonwood by the riverbank led
me back to you too – bent over your clay
wheel, shaping the river-mud
into a smiling imago. We tread
your maze toward home, thread-spun Ariadne.
That Mexican Last Supper diorama –
chipped clay bread-&-wine feast
you repaired... bones of a beast
lifted from bloodlines, toward a panorama.
Light from a distant prison window
gleams in Colchis. Maximus
knots three bright strands
beneath a keystone arch – mingled so,
they mark a brow with perfect diamond,
one spark of dancing flame.
Perfection is the frame
of right accomplishment – the ripe almond
of what thou lovest well. Well-founded
Gateway Arch, the light flows
east to west – what Rhodos grows
for liberty, for justice (lightning-grounded,
here & now). Crossed in St. Louis
by Rio del Espiritu – & there
one eerie soaring flare
of Raven passing through (southwest)
inks the last answering quipu
to that sweet hypothesis
of sea-blue Maximus –
the imago, a kind of kindly Manitou-
insignia. Seal of copper Penny
gleaming from the bottomland;
Columbian wish-well (one hand-
eye palms its moss-green rim... see?).
Southwest, southwest... Cautantowwit,
drawn like a Malcolm, like
a black-orange monarch
through the double dove-doors of that
moonlit mirror, into Mexico –
to touch the orange checkmate
of an azure Golden Gate.
Stubborn, impoverished, soft Frisco
mule! Lifting the ancient key
of human harmony
again, for you, for me –
netting the breathing sail of safety
there, at last – for Juliet,
for John, for Weldon,
Malcolm, Hart... for everyone
yearning, unreconciled, disconsolate;
& across vast timespace hollows
her winged hands & face
stir courage to embrace –
Grace penetrates the Gates (& Rose).