p.s. Ancient Light opens with this epigraph, from The Tempest :
I think he will carry this island home in his pocket and give it to his son for an apple.
Henry flies to capital – a mini-semi-rotten apple
rolls out of Providence on his wife's coattails.
The hangar – mangy titanium birdnest – crawls
with worms. He's afraid we might topple
from the sky – imagines sudden shock – panic!
– dismemberment – and in the impersonal
gray mirror stretching 40,000 feet below, his soul
is nowhere to be found. Eat a breadstick;
drink some more white wine. You'll feel better soon.
The airplane drones along, aluminum
generic cross above unruly orb. Buzz of some
inert gas sentence announces distance to London.
Across the aisle, untimorous children
scribble with crayons on their travel sketchpads,
cheering up their nervous Moms and Dads –
buoyed by something Henry's lost, or forgotten.
The train ride to Oxford was something else.
Profound droning weight of iron travel machine,
farmland English backyard a pale moss green
in the moist December light, your pulse
is calm outside of London, Providence
might be a way of life, a common sphere,
fair, sensible and just – a Hertfordshire
in an ovoid Shakespeare's head, a salience.
Old Roger came here, gathering firewood
splinters for the winter poor; and Jeremiah
Gould, Newport Quaker, came back to lie
under John Gould's Oak, in an apple orchard.
Garden behind Shakespeare's Head, Providence