Some prehistoric microlevel of the dome's
mosaic law. Beneath the fixity of royal
crosshairs (where PT-109's red-purple
wake left the Pacific for a martial
martyrdom). Under the stippled panoply
of curved Gargantua-gazing eyes. Past
crystalline strata set in mordant paste
down to the furtive ricocheting clay.
Where the life resides. Persists. Kenosis
(unwritten law of shrouded self-
displacement). Love's non-com - Sergeant
Elf (oldest service in the universe).
A gap in the fabric's polyhydral harm
(world-histrionic tragedy, a comedy
of air). Somebody sleeping in the eye
of the sty. Cyclone of prophet-phlegm.
A dream. Old Neapolitan, melting
in rings of irrational national colors
(three, three, three...). Nature abhors
a rotund vacuum - let him keep painting
descending eagles and other things, until
his bright, monkish, contemplative eye
wells up with figures so continuous (pie
squares) only the river of ages will
fulfill their overflowing way. Even now
I hear those waves cascade over Victoria.
And the sun-dog suspended there, an aria
shading the area... a rosy-fingered plow.
& so on.