the tender green

INDIAN GRAVE

The tender green fans out in sprays

now, over the trees

by the river.  Hobo sees

a little rise, like an Indian grave (Scythian?)

through cottonwoods – a salience.

Here Mrs. Sippy Nile

meets the 4 Grail

streams – Po (Eridanos),

Avon, Neva, Voronezh.

The raven is a dove

by day.  The paths of love

merge in a lattice-nest (collage

of gray clouds in circumference

of radar palm) where Jonah,

from the salty eye

of hurricane, flutes wholeness

(restoration).  My simple stick man-

woman, caved-in

charcoal Job, has been

the universal algorithm – toon

of Empire or Democracy, depending

on the rope they knotted

(quipu linen, rotted

on the mountaintop).  Swaddling

kid, Vallejo baby.  Lincoln

logs cradle the guest

fresh from wilderness

of ruin (arc of Constantine)

               *

lit by milky Okeanos

whence a black stone

fell, judged by no one –

Petersburg akme (nostos).

Impenetrable wisdom of

Columbia... the dove

of liberty, hove-

to – an alien corn-trove

in that placid Atlantic harbor,

lifting her copper torch

of caritas (scorch-

welded like a bolted nut) over

the twinkling arbor of a bent planet.

The nations tremble, the old

Winnebago starts cold –

rumbles into mobile mercy-net;

Thunderbird circles to Red Wing

becoming human being

in the mirror of Sing-Sing

(bright angle of prism-thing).

She was woodpeckered to a tree

like some Raven-Bluejay

out Oregon way.

Crossroads of simplicity –

a monarch butterfly in Mexico

could not have sung better

with keel o’ green cedar

or almond in Quauhnahuac (ey yo).

4.17.17