With a rock in her sling, Pocahontas reels
around... is it studious Blackstone, shrouded
in his papery coccoon, his womb-cloud,
raining? And she, the root of all he feels,
the knotty stump, the remnant scrawled all
over with riddles... hoary grandmother of
once-wispy willow? Minor mirroring, by river?
Henry plucks the cat-string of his gutteral
personae (unappeased, rambunctious
Mousketeers). Adieu-longing (that stems
from, ends among ice-locked limestone,
russet railroad bridges) shades his soliloquies,
bends his yew longbow (odd oud). Meanwhile
mind-power of Maximus, in Byzantium
(the other Maximus) cradles the frame
of gopherwood, where Black Sea water riles
around Pontus-point; finds scarlet Rahab-
thread, that can untie, make plain, defend
the knot of human and divine enfoldment
(sans désordre) – what riddle more subtle,
troubling? His spirit lingers near that fortress
at the other end of the remorseless depths
where Theseus manarvels fleece (the labyrinth
will reel him back from Ariadne's wilder nest) –
asking again : who reigns in the almond eye?
The mirrored sun plays like a wistful child
in the rocking sea that girdles triste Istanbul.
A land-bound willow wavers between river, sky.