Light riding, westward


On the shortest day, in these northern parts
the river is quiet, the sky
is gray.  A heaving sigh
of flesh, my body is... (the old poet’s

confession).  Too heavy for
this rusted lattice, locked
in Mississippi ice (rock-
frigid rictus).  JB – metaphor

for Job, mayhap.  Job, an icon
of hectored humanity –
who in latter day will see
my Redeemer stand before me, on

the earth.  Sparse light, thin
calumet of raven-smoke...
parting curtains with a stroke
of ink, an Ariadne-thread (woolen

quipu).  The trumpet plays tattoo
above furled Flemish loess
in Queequeg runes (remorse);
lambfields of returning, clumps of yew

veiling a furtive limestone chapel.
Under an alcove of
blu oltramar, Piero’s dove
rays Mary’s robe into mandorla

made with fingertips – Umbrian beam
piercing raven-umber
(barely).  & though they slumber
now, soon shall they wake... in Jerusalem.


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