by the long slow delta-mouth

BRIGHT FLASH

That line of poplars in the Corot distance

like on the way to Ravenna

or along the Seine, Papa

– no, only the topmost branches

of a simple sycamore in Providence

– no, just a maple

in Minneapolis.  O ample,

inexpressible, tongue-tied inheritance!

In the heart of the heart of the country

maybe.  Where anguish lives

alongside hope – conceives

the origin of time-&-space, Henry –

this wilderness of unfound, foundered

land.  This knotted maze

where a wood casket will blaze

(portable grail, marine crossroad)

the suddenly articulate harmony

of an integral universe

like that scene on a vase

when Isaac, Ishmael & Melpomene

leave town together, shaking tambourines

a procession to seashore

on the blind side of Minotaur

throwing down scimitars, carbines

for their Thanksgiving celebration

by the long slow delta-

mouth   at the seething O

& ah   bright flash   of seraph exultation

6.24.18

like Lear in rags

FRESH WELL

Hobo hides out among his cottonwoods,

a shade in camouflage

of cotton shade.  Mirage

of dreaming limbs.  She’s Robin Hood’s

Maid Marion, mayhap, he wheezes

in his sleep.  Across the road

(under the Shriners’ bold

benevolent scimitar) three turkeys

elegant & dainty as Enlightenment

grande dames mime

their quadrille parallelogram

athwart a sump pump drainage vent.

America drowses in Sargasso Sea.

The frigate Rachel picks

up Ishmael, sticks

him in her hold for an Eternity –

Queequeg’s confessions will be written

on his skin, with milky raven-

ink.  Temple of heaven

& earth, your living image (spit-on)...

Every inch a king.  Take physic,

pomp.  O, I have taken

too little care!  Reason

is gone, Regan is Goneril – my wick

sputters waxy blood, not gentleness!

Old man Pound rages

like Lear in striped rags –

Who shall succeed this rookie wilderness?

                     *

My cottonwood sap is like a floating mote

in Ezra’s crochet eye.

Lend him humility

for Lent – he’ll shrive his peacock boat

like Provençal Guillem d’Orange –

warlord who gave it all

away – the pride, the gall –

for fasting, prayer... passing strange

peace.  She is our peace – Star

of the Sea, the Evening Star;

ange of Apollinaire,

pirhouetting fée to end all war –

green child in her basilica

outlasting Stravinsky’s

thundering infamies

against her limping bull’s-eye

crane-dance labyrinth –

Natasha’s temple

limpid, humble, simple

climbing a ridge in Voronezh.

The temple of her body (yours,

mine).  A little salt

savors that azure vault –

elfin leap across the years

into the pond where Hobo swims

& Ishmael paddles... Jonah

surfs... Rachel’s Magdala-

spring (where the fresh well brims).

3.8.17

crumbs beside the Po

SERPENT-ROOT

The life that spirals from the sea-cave

like a serpent-root, a curious

labyrinth etched across

the limestone of a vaulted nave –

the dappled sparkling of infant

river-wavelets.  Mud-brown

vortex of an unknown

casket – Easter-packet – font

of raven-crumbs, beside the Po.

Or Ishmael’s hieroglyph –

inverted fisher-skiff

of pregnant galaxy below

afloat now, circling – a living hand,

an arm, forehead, eyebrow...

emergent tar minnow –

Tad Pole, or Polly Wag, some sand-

borne seaweed driftwood Jane...

Christa on crossties, or

IONAH (in Paradise).  Your

Queequeg is a queer cuss, man,

but OK – floats all right – can even

swim.  His Ariadne-

boles are capillary –

vein his bones into a crown

of 50 stars (for Jubilee).

The echo-cave is empty...

only Eureka!  She

has found him! crows (from sea to sea).

10.6.16