Something smolders deep in Blackstone's heart,
beyond sight, beyond hearing, like a lodestone
of stubborn coal. Reflected in his lone
& wakeful candle; & in the Narragansett
campfire, circled by a band of firelit eyes &
faces etched into the trees (nocturnal
Hagia Sophia's woodburnt cenacle).
Love that would frame in Celtic filigree
& bind in mordant Roman bronze, the seal
of his homing devotion (pensive, pregnant, in
suspense, as in the hum before the hurricane);
love spun far into wilderness, beyond repeal.
One tall holm-oak, the mast of his sunship,
the pivot of his equilibrium –
tether for his bull's-eye seraphim.
E'n la sua volontade... (peaceable playscript).
For the stars are everywhere the same
& shine for homecoming by scything kelson,
ash-braced breeze; that monk's last lesson
(welding nature to the curving seam of
grace) a sloop, wingèd for our thanksgiving;
& in the rust-veined testimony, tolled
perpetually in desert hives, behold
the finish line (green, serpentine, singèd
by flame). So, as an unknown soldier steps
through feral Circus Maximus, one local
soul clinches its focal point – mandorla
splayed in agate hand (its rosy depths).