The mast is dogwood too

The long poem is a curious thing, just going along one can find oneself both inside and outside, like those M.C. Escher reversible mirror-steps.  Step by step I stumble down my wheaty way.  Moving back to Minnesota soon - thinking about the limestone there, & Adrian Stokes' ideas about carving in art, how it merges the figure with the limestone ground, brings them into a watery-stony symbiosis...


If I fade into the low relief
of Minnesota limestone
hedgerow cliffs – a zone
of Ice Age gypsy moths (brief

lives of dashing hummingbirds
& wing├Ęd Peacock Angels
fixed in river-angled
banks of sediment) – my words

would bend into the grain, grow
rude & wooden – like
that bridge or flood-dike
scored by slashing Viking prow...

you’ll read about it in the paper.
World events (Pope
Francis Whirring Hopeful
WingsBlood Moon a Rusty Copper

PennyPutin Barricades
Himself in Alabama)
refract in your Ferrara
mirror (juvenescent shades

of gaiety & heartbreak, green
& bronze between twin cypress
ribs).  My wilderness
a Mendelssohn continuum (scene

from the window of a Roman train).
The mast is dogwood too,
MamaI made it for you
all by myself.  The rain in Spain...


Erica's "Ferrara" cabinet

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