The lover's honey and the scholar's fire
merge in glimmers from a gray wasp's nest –
a bee-forsaken palace in the wilderness,
where Hobo, Blackstone circle round the lair
of their Blue Ox (a Minnesota Minotaur).
Where's Ariadne? In Rhode Island?
With ball of yellow pollen in her hand
like shining honeycomb, or jar of myrrh...
Honey, come home! Come on home, honey!
– my pied pair murmurs, through a subtle
shaft of harness-corridors... a shuttle-
basket, ply on ply. They're history –
a way of stating what cannot be said
(like dream of statehood for the 51st;
somebody's doom-collateral, anonymous;
a sleepy soldier in the garden bed).
But what suits a pedestrian in the Appalachians
is moonshine, home-brewed. That moon road
made of lanthanum, clear across cold
(bull's-eye) Lake Baikal – where a tipsy-
chatterin' sparrow from spare hills
dove once into milky-branching river-light.
Dame Kind refracted in her smile might
lift my water buffalo from Yokum ills –
turn on an Elsie dime, pirhouette gracefully
as Daisy Mae stands beckoning by Abner's Gate.
Rye parish in her gypsy gravity, she'll wait
for that monsoon-pleroma (chartered, Mandalay).