the law is not a sword

WILD GRAPES

A timid April tiptoes toward

her Spring.  Gun-gray sky,

leaf-brown river.  Hobo’s eye

moseys from earth to heaven (&

backward, again).  Raven loops

his knotty diagram,

figures 8 a.m.

some eats (thin scraps he scoops

betwixt instinctual communal hates

of squawky flocks, nations).

Noah’s inflammations

Eli salts – warns, Don’t be late.

Fuming smoke signals just

add to his unease.

Alighieri aims to please –

his bones rest in Franciscan dust,

his narrow beak angles from spark

to spark.  Hearth-embers

flicker out drear winters of

scalding be-ice.  Imperial dark

is splintered by gold threads of light –

lamb-thin graphene ravels

the cave-mouth – mangy hovels

hearken to trompette marine (slight

return).  Apollinaire or Orpheus,

shepherds in New Orleans,

Ravenna... rustic scenes.

Under an overpass (U.S.

               *

or Rus) refugees convene,

lean farmers share

their plows... while everywhere

stones ricochet like bayonets (mean

answers mean, unkind unkind).

The law is not a sword;

it is a binding word

uniting variable humankind

proceeds from love, & so returns –

one warm traveling lamp

from isolated camp to camp

where Roger & Canonicus trade yarns

& Edward Elk defends each Everyone

upon egalitarian

thread-frame (one golden

safety net for all the wobbly children

of sweet Manitou).  Cautantowwit

whispers a Narragansett

name over each hamlet-

nest in Providence.  Let’s eat.

The gathering of crumbs, wild grapes

& hobos has begun.

Mississippi sun

beams west, southwest... Pacific shapes

crest arcs of rainbow (orange, indigo,

azure & rose)... an Ocean

State anchors her span –

Hope’s incarnation (Jonah show).

4.10.17