Circus leaps

RAVENNA DOOR

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).

12.3.15