BLUE CANOE
While boy-o Henry skipped down Arthur St.
in birdsong Mendelssohn
a few miles up the trolley line
J. Buried-Man lingered on Arthur Ave (complete
Dream Song lament, at 57). In Paris now
they’ll have to reconstruct the nave,
restore each curving architrave.
This knave goes drifting to St. Lou – his blue
canoe, beached crosswise (by Cahokia)
a kind of compass needle
aimed straight up. Will weedy
Hobo ever stand erect himself? Selah,
Ezekiel, Isaiah. At San Vitale in Ravenna
or at Notre Dame, pilgrims
still stamp across the lurking limbs
of Lucifer – ravel a penitential way
by grace of Mary’s Ariadne-avatar.
It was her love for Theseus
(like Maggie Miriam’s for Jesus)
reeled him out, dis-mazèd – free & clear.
Lone Henry looks straight up, to Pole Star.
Ariadne’s Crown. The toxic night
a donnybrook for his distraught
Columbia – his ark battered by Minotaur,
his Constitution of chaste liberty
suborned (sat on by Putin’s man).
Look, pilgrim, to the heights again –
whence cometh Thunderbird. Dove… see?
3.29.20
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