LITTLE ISLAND
the fallow air grows milky
The Rio shines in quietness,
mottled by fading ice.
Cato the Woodpecker is
prince of cottonwoods – his highness
tock-tocks like Railsplitter toward
the taproot of Twin Cities’
canker sores. He’s
whittling his wooden law – a word
scrimshawn against all takers,
all Caesars of commonweal,
in the court of last appeal –
galactic axle of the makers.
Is this a holiday? The soothsayer’s
a dreamer (pass, tense).
Cinna lost his innocence
mangled among conspirators –
murdering for liberty (the mob
took it another way).
Is this a holiday?
The Ids are on the march – to Nob
Hill, where nabobs are on fire
amid their books. Moses
threw tomes into a rose-
bush (ruby thorn in rabid empire)
& King David warped his harp
with smooth rushes & grass –
his humble plant shall pass
anthills of Tyre, the minnow tarp
*
of Lucifer – the arrogant hare
shall slip behind the turtle
& the dove shall hurtle
like a hummingbird (plum everywhere).
The sea wind washes the shoreline;
she lifts my face toward
her calm sunlight. The sword
shall pierce your own heart, Minute Man,
little island seeker after Liberty –
her candle glimmers, copper-
green, where grasshopper
& ant both anchor. Charity
of Chartres, Maid of Orleans,
Spirit of St. Louis
circling toward Paris,
read us what soul freedom means –
infinite mercy & joy
lifting the universe
from snowy ovoidness
into a Shakespeare play –
late Mississippian romance
only the first people
have beheld. Quadruple
diamond, sapphire expanse,
arc of a Southern Cross above
refulgent rose island –
we expiate... to understand
your ever-brimming streams of Love.
3.15.17
pileated woodpecker
