from Grassblade Light (ch. 2, "Letters to Elena"). written 5 yrs ago. the "star of free speech" : a leading Petersburg democrat & feminist, assassinated as she returned home from work.

         14


  
         It's cold here, Elena.  Almost like Minnesota.
 It must be cold where you are too, and dark.
 Where a star of free speech fell – look,
 she breathes... no more.  At her own door.

  
         Like More, or Marlowe, murdered for a candle.
 Free mind, flown out the window, gone.
 And now the sun is gliding down.  In
 honeycomb cubbyholes you bundle

  
         up, bound tight around the spindle
 of Aurora Borealis.  And wound
 upon wound, as mummy-cloths are wound...
 the spiral tunnels into Shakespeare's wonder-

  
         brain... an unknown worm or summer soldier
 wintering through night upon a polar sledge.
 Against this tested light what need to rage
 – is only a promise.  Only a promise.  Dear

  
         limping leg of the stony trail toward Lent,
 dear crutch, dear rhyme-enfrosted heart!
 At midnight we shall pilgrimage (start
 now, in PJ's) toward the dark tent

  
         of heaven.  Yoked with uncertain
 flutters planted there – each
 crossroad underwritten – search
 your own mosaic microcosm!  Then

  
         into the black stone of Jerusalem,
 where blind eyes and seeing fingers
 hear, feel the running waters – tumble,
 froth – break forth – gush forth for them.


       
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