Fontegaia rollin' on...


To catch the dark meaning of the shuttling threads
woven out of old, old, senex Yule (a snowman
in July, Henry) - the unraveling plan
of surrender to yon alien love-craft... Medusa

heads upstream (Moon River, wider than a mile).
One plangent string drawn taut, one note
drawn out so, sostenuto... little mote-a-float,
small purple coracle (a circular bark, congealed

of thread, compiled from bark) sails through
the mottled shift of memories, the flaking
Madonna imagery (that photo taken by
the pool - those charcoal eyes, collecting you)

until the war-cries of a mortal struggle
(Battle of Lost Mountain) interweave
as overtones - the town conceives
itself as free at last - living model

of a byzantine mosaic curvature (Prince
Charming tenders her the toy Troy-town
surrounded by fleet morris-dancers, bound
in labyrinthine knots of amaranth footprints).

With sun and moon beneath her feet, haloed
by the Milky Way
- so the hungry painter
(out of his ribcage-shell) depicted her:
fluttering Jonah, sister-sailor, swallowed

up in submarine design (breathing
Leviathan) - a levitation, inevitable
leavetaking - straddling her sable (midnight)
bridled Pegasus. The Queen of Everything.

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