PURE SOUND
i.m. Robert Treuer
Back East, in Rhode Island, the big snow
coming. Thinking of William
Blackstone, hermit-pilgrim – the
one who went to live with Miantonomi
& the other red-men. To the House
of 4 Pines – under
cartouche of Little Bear,
North Star. Out of Nazi Austria
sped a peregrine, by grace of God
& pity of strange braves
(Scattergood saviors,
anonymous donors... meek just good).
To a tree farm he fostered (in remote
forest). Led into circle
of silent First People,
tending ashes (sitting shiva). Little
prow of acacia, rocking near Itasca-
Nile... your upside-down
fire-drill will drown its
candle in stony Minnehaha.
Sigh, winging out into grey sound
(b-flat at midnight).
The musicologist
from Florence mutters back to ground
just so – back to the pigeon-clay
of primordial, steadfast
Bee (until the last
dragon of Sheol fades away).
1.22.16
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