Author: [[Nick Roberts]] --- Wm. Blaxton with the apple seeds in his pocket lookout over swart N. Atlantic he sees the dawn and dawnspring rise— hand of Persephone turning the wheel the dreadful white pomegranateblood hand of Persephone turning the wheel turning the rudder turning the capstan. We’re headed to the underworld with          daughter of Oceanus wrapping around us          Preswa, deer, Despoina the study of seeds and soils they take root in. Praxidike, Hagne, Aristi cthonia. He fiddles the seeds in his pocket. They are smooth and waxy to the touch. Here I can fetch you the apple, William Blaxton, reverend heart of landscape of intimacy, o scape of doxy and ortho bless farms and the dux of the orchard across. William Blaxton fondles the seeds in his pocket, on the packet from Weymouth to Charlestown. He plants one beneath the sign of The Three Cranes, under her heart. Way through the drawbridge on North Street, butchers beasts entralls and garbidg flowing through with singularity. Charity dies as he swims. Deep glacial tides, anonymous in strata,                                  whole in going. I dip my glass in the glacial spring                                 and drink. I drink to the time of the fires across the bay, winking the water and freezing my heart where it is cold and my seeds. Where are you going, William Blaxton, as we build paradise on the hump? To Lotan, your serpent guardian-arch of the well.