Onward she goes...

12

 
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)