O April’s love-travails! You led me blind
by whisper-trellis, through the vine-nigh,
vine-high night. To trace a flicker-shadow
of blue phosphorus (a zig-zag jay). Inward.
The lens-curve lining of this mini-retina
is as rose coracle, or limpid vesica. A rude
mandorla (me) filled with scraps of yankanoodle
sails – my papery mis-steps, cul-de-sac accidia-
reports. Yet from such booty of dearth
you lift me into azure, shade... sheltered
by sentinels of cedar, cypress (cloistered,
grave). This limestone river-cave – earth-
lapping light-waves leapt from its jaws. Frieze
bent like a rushing spirit-arc – a waterfall
of overflowing laughter. Ponte Vecchio guild-
hall, binding the flume of mangled histories...
I cannot build it myself. Yet heaven is integral.
Yearning, limping one, by the Livingstone-tree,
eternal menorah, you harbor me within feathery
ellipse – so I may not stumble, though I crawl.
& the inward lining of my patchwork, jumble-
sale soul rethreads itself – this heirloom J-
square Coatlicue-shroud (serpentine Jonah).
A Pontifex Maximus smaller than Tom Thumb
or Pushkin’s button spins upon its pinpoint eye
– where Hagia Sophia rides on a bumblebee
toward the North Pole; where Sacajawea
folds up yon aurora-tepee of stars (hey-yo)...