Under the moon, O changeling moon, truth
flickers fitfully, in milky Troy-town light.
Meanders furrowing our 7-year blight
are desiccated by a cursive X, forsooth –
Joseph's admonishment, a screwed-up Jubilee.
The ruddy month of harvest, already whitened
by sickly mold (cold, cold)... & the writing
on the wall is always there, a promissory
note (for AWOL understanding). Meanwhile
the plane of time and history drones overhead,
relentless flywheel – each local tribal forehead
marked with a familiar V (for viper-trail)
& the moon wavers through lampshade clouds...
all human sighs whorled in a single, tidal cry
for rest, nocturnal crest – the shoreline's
hushed I am, I am (systole, diastole) through
bent shrouds of night-branches (creak
of olive, almond, gopher-wood, ash, oak).
Remorse for every Ariadne turns the fork
of the plow back on itself (my widow's peak
by flattened y-axis) – ineluctable recursion
of Theseus-dance become one wooden sound,
one whole demand, one human wound... one
Hopi thumb-print (Hopewell river-immersion).
& you will be led along by the gravity
of a greater love, overshadowing... turn
after turn, tide after tide, in the quern
of the Queen's long-yearning (unrushed levity).