on the verso

HAWTHORN BLOOM

There were verses on the verso of 

the parchment, leaching through

like spidery veins (blue

robin’s-egg hen-scratches... mazel tov).

Imprimature of sovereignty.

Blood-red wax of Charles

sealing the 6-foot chart

of Little Rhody liberty;

beehive of ancient freedoms

rooted in that right

Coke labored to indite –

of persons to their own kingdoms

of thought, & conscience, & truth.

For Roger Williams,

riveting I AM –

rhaptor soul Nazirim, forsooth.

Because that bird circling the oak

is like a thread that knots

the agate to the plot’s

ripe dénouement.  The thunder spoke

& stone rose   like a double-ax

out of the mountain-wave

laddering Jacob’s cave

a grail-casket   for sweet St. Max

whose dream became   a vernal tomb

across the womb of Magdalen

& made of Joshua   a wren

& Henry Sol   a hawthorn bloom

1.21.17