I don’t know how long I lay there, gazing up
at summer sky-flocks, meandering across
their bluegrass planes... hypnotic surf-race
over the surface of one shuttered lens. Hope
springs in the North, Natasha muttered then;
everything coalesces in the North, she uttered
(cryptic sprite). Or convalesces? countered
I. You’ve read Recovery, my languid friend –
you know how that frail-minded, shattered poet
suffered, from beginning unto end. I saw
his gawky bird-bones, feathered in the snow.
Despair can scatter limb from limb, disconsolate
lamb. Then I felt once more the strange wind
of life & death, as it fluttered through the shade
of an immense, enkindled chestnut tree (widespread
& imperturbable). I heard its low voice... wingèd,
kindly, comforting. I turned to her. Natasha,
tell me, what has Maximus Confessor-monk to do
with my mournful Confessional – his manic, panic
woe? – Henry, sd she, you’re his image : fashioned
in stealth, the blind sigh-lash of his mantic sword.
How does it feel? To be the figment of a dream...
a hard crust blown across exigent ice, extreme
Siberia? Understand, now... so life is scored
for every woman, every man. So each is scarred.
A blade shall pierce your own soul too, the prophet
cried. Yet buried hearts will soar again, from lofted
cribs of ash & cottonwood – redwings, fire-starred.