The cloudy voice of Okeanos
over snow-muted farms
hums Dakota charms
for fettered waters (under us).
The boredom of the barbed-wire
borders will dissolve,
disintegrate. I have
a dream, sang Memphis Fire
into the tumbleweed. Chalk lines
drawn from Grand Forks
to Santa Fe, these marks
scored by tornado, Time refines –
files into church basements & barns
bent cedar spines, weathered
by old sand. Spare word
spun inside-out by drought yawns
into dappled pastel yarns – gray
background looming, warped
onto rainbear cube (tarp-
tepee tender as a safety net, hey
ey yo). The fluted planes of brave
Dove-Turtle ring like wave-
tongs on your heart – weave
future pastures from a lichen grave.
Like some drab village near Drobdorf
transmuted by these panes
of plumb green-violet... the lion’s
eye, her peacock metamorph.
Lyonel Feininger, "Village Church in Thuringia (Drobdorf)"
Weisman Art Museum, Minneapolis