Over the panorama of Good Government
a brooding glow of midnight blue - so dark
against that airy chamber's Tuscan glare
(nocturnal cadence under Judgement seat).
In a corner of the couch, her head sloped
on her hand, in diaphanous soft silver smock,
sweet Pax, detached from civic rolling stock,
moons into the distance (a painted antelope
toward real mountains). Shielded
by gentle heart, wise temperament
and nothing more. Feminine bent
posture, leaning there; unfolded
field of meadow flowers, arcadian ark;
figure of the will, transfigured in a well
of all things well. Not sundered from the skirl
of shrill desire, no - lightened by the footwork
of a deeper bass. That ring of nubile girls
dancing in the street, demure, careless...
that Appalachian moonshine, effortless
play (ukelele-dobro-mandolin)... whirls
you (collage of giggling collisions, jig
of visions) shaken to the roots
of every angling pine. Somehow in cahoots
with an aerial arc-welder in T formation (Zig?
Little Brown Jug). His banner under me
was sealed (toward Paradise); the plow
left off, her feathered steed sails Now (her
Soo Line siren - high horn silvery - Away).
continuing Fontegaia chapter 3...