Fontegaia keeps on keepin' on...


Out the library window beyond the Courthouse
at the end of the park under the shady maples
& ringed with vines lies an old well (RW's
early spring) from whence the plumbline goes

straight up into the sky. & just as a stone
draws perfect whorls in the stream just as it
drops beneath the surface disappears
I would draw a set of radii from this point on

into the town & let it pulsate, rotate
a rippling impression of an ancient face
a Personage as if breathing through the ice
of frozen circumstance warm air, wind aslant

into cold soil where the seeds are And
this, my sketch for an image of the Truth
- a living, breathing parsonage at azimuth
of plumbline-crown (its vertex in your heart)

& that which is everywhere the same inexorable
necessity the gravity of the grave & the
blinding roar of the sun & the restless sea in
motion under the moon become slowly amenable

(amen, amen) to the georgic human hand
trembling over its seedling-keys for the prevailing,
guiding melody the providential path the Way
and suddenly over the verdant, waiting plowland

a harmony of 9 courting spheres in a dance
memorious pavane slow Sophie-seraph lightfoot
sarabande for Roger's will-to-truth (soul liberty)
See they whirl in a stereopticon (Siena trance)

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