S. Martini, City by the Sea.
A blue-black sea, with a single double-
sailed vessel. A puzzle-castle
and a lonely little tree.
In the turquoise elbow of a stream
a nude figure with golden hair
(hunched over) dabbles, barely
there - all flowing, fleeing from the frame
(except for the red-blue garments flung
upon neon grass). In Camelot
they married; now she's married not
(in the City by the Sea). Unsung
Hero, waiting by the shore,
she is the negative of charity,
the mirror of the eye's motion -
the molten origin of lapidary lore.
Homer felt his way along the walls
of fate, blindly, tenderly. The earth
is rounder than the measure of wrath
or the squeak of fractious Percivals;
what was given from heaven whispers
in featherweight horsehair, the touch
of hand upon brow (to whom much
is given, much will be required, sailors).
And tender fingers melt into the clay
spun round, round (even, ineluctable)
til the branch of a ferris-railroad (by
and by) is a goldenrod, crying Crucify.
- yet another riddle for you -