Dove Street, cont.:

From your node of dove-grey granite   nestled in the Hudson bluffs
above the hustling metropolis my saint Guillem
where the convalescent painter painting so patiently
slows time to sweetness and lights into the depths I thought

I saw it might be something like this:
three young ballerinas in feathery pink and gold peering
curious and tremulous around the curtain on tiptoe
with unconscious grace (Degas, the Guggenheim)

and the young crowd’s eager faces peering curious
and tremulous on tiptoe with unconscious grace
into the frame: there in the feminine mirror an iteration
of a golden measure or benevolent universe

the play’s the thing for melancholy Dane or Orpheus
hooked by the furrowed shadow of an empty heart;
time slows and lost is action to the name, unspeakable
and grey (like the shimmer of Law in the dolphin-depths)

all’s figures cries the street-wise idiot
when the heartbroken hero descends into the grave:
for the one who went before already lifts him free
in the slivered glint of every new year’s day

and O what mighty wooden O is this resting on a Sabbath-ship
a ring-dance ringed around a painted pose a pause
or cloistered clustering around a single coiled spring
a noon where an ink-brush runs a stream upstream

to a sunny mountain: what gives which gives who gives
and gives and flows perpetuum mobile continuum’s
heart’s blood O hearty sacrificium full, complete and
with unconscious grace (inflected law of every lovely feat)


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