Lanthanum 11.6

6

We’ll turn back homeward now, Natasha said.

She spun me round again, facing east – I was

still wobbling like a pelican – so, with a smile

she said, Come, join me in my strato-sled.

We lounged in the cockpit, rested for a moment

(just the twinkle of an almond eye).  She pointed

through that shimmer-haze, toward the Atlantic

– azure screen that mingled sea & sky.  A tent

of tangled green stood ‘mid rainbow circumflex

(a vivid, vernal dome).  This is the secret house

of William Blackstone – stray self-exiled priest

– the one who went to live with Narragansetts,

Wampanoags. & then I saw the blurry figure

of a man – arms raised, framed by that wooden

fogbound alcove.  In a free wilderness, beholden

to none, he found a place to start anew – your

pioneer of spiritual liberty (& grace, & peace,

& happiness).  Preached kindly, bravely there

under his Catholic Oak... yet his real treasure –

pearl past compare – was Sabbath-day release;

in lone prayer, on Study Hill, he fixed his gaze

within & through that wavering candleflame’s

dream-vision (victory).  Among his apple trees

– his Yellow Sweets – Will B. beheld the rays

of a round & ruddy world set free – some future

realm of Jubilee.  I glanced then over at Natasha

on her cloudy couch – saw another Madaleña... in

that dawnlit graveyard, weeping.  With a gardener.

5.23.12