There's a whole in the bucket


When Joachim Fiore, hermit-monk
hidden in heel of Italy,
after many a fasting-day
frescoed his Fauve raptor-hawk

like a rainbow-feathered calumet
smoking the end of aeons...
When the dust returns
from whence it came (Osiris sunset-

raft, veering to purple bull’s-eye)
& bones of bearberry
revert to green hay
& Alma the Corn Maid heaves a sigh

for Land o’Lakes (their vanishing,
twinkling, hexagonal
bye-bye)... then shall we all
rise too, in a Sabbath playground swing

of the Pleiades – & wheel with Mama
Ursa Major, in a New
World Symphony (Ojibwa
Lullaby, scribbled on your way

from Minnehaha, Anthony).  Because
the whole in the silver bucket
is a river-song (Pawtuxet,
maybe) sweeter than ever was –

is your redemption-hymn, O Solomon.
Sheba the Buffalo Lady
knows it, as does Maggie
Galilee... The Eagle from the Oven-Sun.


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