Circus leaps


This winter Mississippi, silver-
blue as a kingfisher,
must be my Ocean here,
now.  Old Rhode Island (Roger

Williams tugging at his oar
along the Narragansett
shore) is like an inlet
glinting on Ravenna door.

This plain flatland’s no nacre
objet d’art – no Rimini-
Jiminy jingle-tree
nor fizzle-pop of firecracker.

It’s the tip of a massive iceberg
mound, with Ojibwa scrawls 
from International Falls.
It’s a raven-furled ironwork

Father of Waters (del Espiritu
Santo).  The dark ink spills
from Andean condor hills
like shade from a single pine... you,

yew.  One sinuous dove-grey thread
from woolen crown (above
almond eyes) – Love’s
quipu, drawn from riverbed –

the peacock bow of freedom’s O
(a circuit of Noahtic leaps
that signal seamanship).
Her line grips like a sheepfold

fence (through centuries of snow).


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