Blackstone. His homemade farm, his Study Hill
in Cumberland, by Narragansett river –
fruitful, skewed meteor of hermit-scholar
(Anglican, without portfolio). Friend of Rog. Will.
Here the cyclorama of a mental universe
framed birdfoot notebooks, parallel lines.
And like a hunter collaring his falcons
Blackstone wondered at stars, immersed
in their orchestrations... their ink-blue field.
The Southern Cross lifted its mast (orthogonal,
aslant) from his horizon. Slate-grey hymnal,
Common Prayer... here history is sealed
within a sliver-sacrifice. Number our days.
Blackstone uncorked a flimsy scroll (Greek-Latin-
Hebrew, Orthodox). Maximus the Eremite –
whose constant gaze wed contraries (on Earth
as it is in Paradise). Wherein the scrawny
one-pawed martyr scribbled out a simple letter
to his friends, disciples, enemies... (a better
formula for self-surrender). And the
only one. Where indeterminate pervasive
(limestone) surface rhymes with single snow-
flake. Where the solidarity of general woe
meets one commanding apostolic call (to give)
and the 50 stars of the Jubilee join the six-
sided honeycomb of her design (in a bell's
aye) – the heavy yoke of slaving centuries
repealed (beside yon Magdalen-mediatrix).