My country, 'tis of thee...
You've grown impatient with my petrified
woodcarvings, my quartets for tangled string.
You want poems like shiny underthings,
all spangly allure – elastic, with magnified
apertures (for easy exit). Here
there are only entrances (this is a maze).
I'm stuck here myself – in Rancho Lazy-
L (largest bull pasture this side of the river).
The rain is settling into February.
There's no fireplace; damp invades the poem.
And still I'm leaning over my island hearth-
home, like Odysseus in some forsaken estuary
(other than Ithaca. Off-course, of course).
He dreams of the sunlit domes of the capital,
and the deep columns of drifting light, all-
human, tender as worn shoes. Remorse
of the exiled solitaire is human, too. All this
under a muttering local rain (in Providence).
Down pour, downpour – I'll be your dense
dam (brimmed by a dewy meadow-kiss).
Because whatever it was about her voice
beckoned me into precipitous precincts.
Persists in memory. And whoever sinks deep
enough might catch its echo (rejoice, rejoice)...
Crosswinds blow spring rain against a mast.
Odysseus senses something in the air.
Arms strain against the ropes. Eyes stare.
Pricked ears attend heraldic harmony (deep, vast).