WOOF DAWN
Now vales of Maia give away
to peaks of June, plains
emerald after rains;
gold Ghana-threads of yesterday
(encircling Hermione,
her Perdita) are knotted
in one polyglot,
shade-silvered whisper-crown.
The dream-song of that melancholy
painter in the corner
(Henry Coroner,
or Richard Parking-Lot) might be
a facet of the grey sea’s matière –
portion of the human
globe (octagonalmond,
arched like Nut over the pearl-
sphere of the earth). Hearth-sign
of futurity, through sleep
to an oasis – leaping
Minnehaha (Hobo river-mind).
Someone smiling in an acorn cap
shadows his Georgia garden.
Some apple-orchard man,
repairing limbs... his milky map
renews the face of day. All things
woof dawn, old Prospero –
it happened long ago.
Her cartwheel (spun of gold bee-stings).
6.15.16
