STRANGE TENT
Nothing will be exactly as predicted
when the poem sets out,
like this ice-hung behemoth
heading south (serpent-conflicted
Mississippi, Father of Waters,
Rio del Espiritu Santo)...
& as the prophets foretold
I will make all things new (stutters
Moises, making noises like
Elijah, taking off).
Hart, like emerald elf,
leaps toward her ruby Rubicon –
somewhere beyond Milan, Miranda
(Paris, or Trebizond)...
my aerial’s magic wand
fails here, even (lost memoranda).
Only I know that steed King Richard
sought in vain – Pegasus,
rough burr-man mule (Francis) –
drums like a hidden Thunderbird
in his own battered, broken heart
(Earth’s fleet beatitude
within his grasp). Rude
hut, strange tent, Somali hurt,
forsaken boat... the Mediterranean
salt will keep each relic
Antikythera mechanic – as
my Redeemer liveth (unforeseen).
1.1.16
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