Rushing

All along I’ve been a miner,
exploiting the river of divinity.
Now inchilljötunheimr, interweavèd,
commixed in dreams whose ambitions
are condemned to a pond of lifeless
ice, lie, try, I, pry and descry.

Calligraphy paper on which I jot
down every stream of consciousness
mislays me from the oubliette de
censorship and expurgation. I row
up the tides of English locution I’ve
wielded in ma vie, leave ’em in void.

On a page ripped off from illuminations
and another from the devana commedia
I loot the jötnar, pillage their ice; o aye
holy water serves best when iced up,
smeared with blood-blurred bubbles,
freezing streams, fake-haloing with mist.

I dream of sparking bonfires of yore oft
and listen to the husky bun- burn– bren—;
or perhaps of one heading east and another
west, saying, pragduŋs—hey, my brother.
“How astonishing it is that language can
almost mean,” and intoxicating, that it does

not
quite.