Onward she goes...


Down stately Prospect Street I go, on my way
to work in the morning in Providence
dawdling along slow brain-matter dense
trouble in mind trying to figure out that Day

of Jubilee how out of these slowly corroding iron
wrecks this wracking violence just how
it comes (as the blarneyman says) dropping slow
Pax, that is Peace not just my private lawn

but Peace in general over the broad rolling earth
to the steel-drum splash of sword into plow
(delving, planting) How will it be? Just how?
It seems impossible to frame the Falstaffian girth

of such an expansive, expensive ship of state
Impossible so to direct the human will
into such channels of a civil grace so naturally
supernatural a dream (full-timbred first estate)

Until we reckon in that primary, original good will
the deep dark cosmic J-dem hole the well
of doing-well prompting an echo in the soul
of every child the fountain of the W (Blue Nile

falls, hovering beneath a well-wrung constellation,
Lucy) there in the balance of its equilibrium
a dance of Will with Sophie (merged in the hum
of some mellifluous & royal honey-hive) turning one

turn, then another 1-3-2 and so revolving
in a far-flung highway O that milk train way
from the deep breast of the dark matter hey-ey
O the sustenance for every steadfast vessel (love)

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