Touch of tuning fork


Gray world, wind washing rain across
the enormous limestone crevasse
down River Road.  Slant layers
of pre-Cambrian scrawls (wrinkles

of periwinkles, snails, seashells)
pre-date the hieroglyphs –
those Isis-&-Osiris skiffs
loaded with already-hoary piles

of Horus-eyes, gold scarab beads...
Cottonwoods like willows here –
divining rods bent to the River’s
imperturbable Runnymede.

The stream’s a mobile parallax.
One touch of tuning fork
will resonate through stark
tenebrous time-caverns – axe-

marks of Raven shadow Dove
into a treasure-trove
of hunter’s glove (apes
channel fright to constellation-love).

I would sound that iron undertone
down through the catacomb
of trench-war years – hum
Psyche-Wisdom’s will be done,

track Ariadne’s thread, from Chartres
to Notre Dame, from Magna
Carta to the Frisco Bay –
where Lady knots her safety net.


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