I previously posted a bit from the first chapter, for which here is the link. The one about the "headache of a rational animal" : one of the first poems written for Stubborn Grew. "Here is the church, here is the steeple..."
The lucky, pickled pescatore from Fisher St., wandering around London, found his houseboat at the last minute.
The year was sinking down, the perfect day
was coming to an end – but I almost forgot something!
I'd found my gifts (for harmonizing charming kids), so
I walked to the Thames again, down Chelsea way.
And in the faint dusk, Orion overhead, found there
a miniature church, like a houseboat (Anglercan.
St. Stephen's). Suddenly (inside) I heard the soar
of children's voices, caroling. The door cracked open.
Here is the church, here is the steeple. Open the door. . .
and add your mangy unquintessential to the choir,
Henry! (like a Viking petroglyph from Lake Superior).
Standing room crowd, glowing candles, voices, higher, higher. . .
How lucky I was, to be in Christmas! London! – There!
1.19.98 (Martin Luther King Day)
Cathedral of St. John (Providence, RI)
(see Wikipedia note regarding its proposed future use)