SLOW WHEEL
Henry leans on Hobo, stumbling along
the river path.
Sullen serpent of wrath,
her mud-green bronze glistening
mutely as she goes, her banks
tight-lipped, angry with Man,
older than Man. The sun
barely registers on shady flanks
slipping by, tongue flickering.
The plot thickens. Clouds
darken where crowds
hearken – listen! – princes, bickering...
& who shall have the succession?
A cast of characters –
kings, clerics, warriors –
mime St. Vitus in scared possession –
sleepwalk their sacrificial totem
for a perennial repetition
of the same (again, again).
& armies marshal around Bethlehem
to protect the kingdom from its violence;
a convenient woman shall
be found, to dance the ritual
in their place (a chosen princess)
& her cacophonous Parisian Rite of Spring
will set the keynote for a war
to end all wars (for
a while). Meanwhile the black spring
*
of Rio Mississippi coils in anger
on the Iron Range, under
the North Star. Thunder,
Hobo, Henry says. It’s Woodpecker
come back – alight near Red Wing,
so they say. What
does it mean, old mutt?
He muttered back : it don’t mean anything
to many, Hen. She walks beside you
like an iron canoe,
the spiral J of Synagoga –
like that Micòl in Ferrara, like a shadow
of Our Lady. Spiritu – loving you,
who don’t deserve her –
sacrificed for Minotaur
on every altar, from Cahokia to now.
Then Henry saw a little emerald
almond leaf, shaped
like a boat... wrapped
in a river-whorl, spun, twirled
downstream. The Delta beckoned,
where dark Mère Lousine
grinned from the deep. Lean
over some more, Henry, Hobo intoned.
There’s Benjamin Latrobe & Son,
sunk like a foundation
in the Gulf. An American
sun blinked, dark. A slow wheel spun.
7.21.19
