haunted scent


My soul, like a woodchuck hidden
in Old Charley’s Oak,
must be lit by a stroke
of lightning even to begin –

like that gold spearman on the dome
in Providence, icon
of limpid Everywomban –
Williams’ independent spirit, come

to revolve like Gabriel Crozier-Torch
around his merry Morning
Rose (see Alighieri’s singing
sky).  An Ocean Island (search

Queequeg’s tattoos).  A green Tahiti
lapped by peaceful Ocean
River – Night Sea span,
gold-threaded geometric Ratio,

squared rail-split Israel rondure
(Galilee of Lincoln-
logos, all for one
& one for all).  O armature

of lovely Law!  Fleet safety net
bracing each breathing sheep
with her own fleece... keep
dangling in catenary grace!  Yet

lift the lilies of your haunted scent
until the spirit in us
brims past avarice,
hot pride – guide to your tent


under Polaris & the prancing
Bears, where free children
ripple the utmost common
well.  Like Addams, balancing

book-learning with hand-work,
art with science, freedom
with obligation... some
justice for the beaten fork –

the disenfranchised, cheated poor,
collateral damage
beneath our idol-image
(smoking low sulfuric Boor

of plump kin-pride & greed).
So Hobo Henry muttered
by the mud-brown flood
of Mississippi river.  Honey-mead,

sweet sea-salt air of tamaracks...
the vaulting spire of Dante-
tracks filter the ray
that flies orthogonal – strikes

Roman iron with Hebrew vine.
Gold thread (Apollinaire’s
trompette marine) bears
light into the grain combine –

sun through the moss-green shade
above the ancient spring
(a Restoration thing).
So in a Maker’s aye all things are made.


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