Path P in six directions


The immeasurable quiddity
of a point in spacetime.
An icon turns on a dime
flashing silver corona (so free)

– as green almond eyes shine
with smiles of recognition
a beloved face is one
whole star – 4-dimensional mine-

shaft to the planetary helm
or meteoric stone
no one can own
coming down from sea-grey realm

of milk & honey (Northern Lights
a mirror for a horn
of plenty).  So being born
thus, river-clay triangulates

Path P in six directions
diamond octahedron
finished in the sun
like plates my mother hexagons –

weathered oak-leaf hands (brown
in the round, rolled
out of clay, from old
dishevelments of tumble-down

autumn).  & where the tree-rings
circulate the marrow
spacetime’s arrow
coils into chestnut Sphinx


whose crumbled wine one drinks
out of the Nile-delta –
steps northeast  selah
toward the dome (when nobody thinks

one will) resembling a bronze acorn
of evergreen holm oak.
One ruddy spoke
upon a node of blinding sunshine –

ice-hewn clarity of Everyhon
beside the glowing hearth
of agape – the earth
in equilibrium – Son

& Father & the Holy Ghost
waltzing a crane-dance
to the drone of Magdalen’s
accordion (hale Mary’s host)...

& once the orgulous organ’s
dismantled, & the light
flows through violet
rose circlet (there in Jacqueline’s

seatown) – a naiad will emerge,
a sundance figure (on
the prow of Lincoln’s own
logos).  Sophie her demiurge,

love-waves her rite – La Paix
or Buffalo Woman,
Morning Star... pine-
green majestic Liberté.


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