Every poem is a small apocalypse.
Justly the great ponderous world
turns lightly on the nonchalance
of Pax - twirling an upright slip
of green, where she lolls at ease
(in comfortable slip) across the corner
of the couch, in Lorenzetti's fresco
of Good Government. Just so a breeze
of evanescence bears elusive scent
of something inexplicable - world, life
set right - 7th (sustained) after grief
and toil - a restoration (plangent...
prescient). Over Palazzo Pubblico
the spry agave-spine (Torre del Mangia)
leaps into space; time pauses where
your singing icons drone (calm echo).
Insignia of Sabaoth, harmonious iron
of time fulfilled. Every person is an end
in Pax's slow-revolving laurel crown (when
she comes into her own, the labyrinthine one).
(I like the way she looks like she's listening...)