HAWTHORN BLOOM
There were verses on the verso of
the parchment, leaching through
like spidery veins (blue
robin’s-egg hen-scratches... mazel tov).
Imprimature of sovereignty.
Blood-red wax of Charles
sealing the 6-foot chart
of Little Rhody liberty;
beehive of ancient freedoms
rooted in that right
Coke labored to indite –
of persons to their own kingdoms
of thought, & conscience, & truth.
For Roger Williams,
riveting I AM –
rhaptor soul Nazirim, forsooth.
Because that bird circling the oak
is like a thread that knots
the agate to the plot’s
ripe dénouement. The thunder spoke
& stone rose like a double-ax
out of the mountain-wave
laddering Jacob’s cave
a grail-casket for sweet St. Max
whose dream became a vernal tomb
across the womb of Magdalen
& made of Joshua a wren
& Henry Sol a hawthorn bloom
1.21.17
