In the limpid evening distance, the twin
piers of the bridge are shining
as if a smile took wing.
& something very like an H is drawn
in orange ‘gainst the azure gold –
a catenary grave
for slight Ophelia (wave
goodbye now, wrinkled Henry Gourd).
Hamlet & Laertes squabble
aching in the trench;
leaves fall... the wench
is dead. The leaves make hibble-hobble
& the scene folds into quiet,
sea, mourning. The ship
groans back to London. Slip
the knot now, Everyman... knit
your soul into that oaken keel.
The ropes will fray, the mast
will break, redwood at last
keel over too... yet may this steel
needle still aim toward home, somehow.
A gibbous moon ripens
onto Jaybird’s pencil-
thin & salient thread (above, below
twine almond bears) the crossroad sings
with joyeux Yeshua
the motes flame Manitou
Black Elk yahoo the tree-bell rings