There are orioles in the woods


They’re casting another bridge across
the River; saws whine,
a tug toots, the cranes
lift high & gawky, like red-rose

giraffes.  There are orioles in the woods...
My long-drawn notes
shore up a span that floats
on vague bleu Gulf streams – moods

& swings; you have to walk between
the strands of frayed thread
looped onto gravity (dead
reckoning)... O plum-colored has-been,

warped by Magdalenian
& riverine diffraction!
Yet one stone section
lifts the key.  Giuliana

limns it, with her simple pottery –
the old grey painter
in his deserted corner
emanates intransigent asperity

like mud-splashed cast-off prophecy.
Only the rough rind
of some green kiwi-mind...
her catenary rainbow bend (sea-

sown, high-flown).  Yon Earth-Gate
shines at earliest dawn –
solemn mandorla-keystone,
freedom-sign (gioia incarnate).


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