So we gazed a while, Natasha & I, through those
marvelous leaves of glass... tinned honey-gold
roses, marked by a razor-thin tread of blood.
Conical... conjunct... triangulation on the nose
of hunter-sense (hayloft of Maximus). Where
the Abyssinian star-map unfolds, slightly (silently).
Noted Memphis-shadow of Melchizedek (milky
with peace & lovingkindness) recite his prayer :
O praise the Lord, all ye nations; praise him,
all ye people. For his merciful kindness is great
toward us : and the truth of the Lord endureth
for ever. Praise ye the Lord (O perfect hymn).
The leaves of the oak tree whispered around us
as night fell, & our vision poured like wine.
The synthesis of Maximus, a conjugation
of the two-in-one, make three : made Kairos.
& someone stands there in the shadows
looking out at the dry garden, listening
to vine-limbs creak in the night air. Sing
the lines to me. You made them, didn’t you.
Someone played through me. Fiddling gypsy
from Bukovina, maybe... stood near the beech-
vine, almond, ashtree. Ground of our beseeching,
baby. Baobab. Somebody like dying bumblebee...
tipsy-traipsy butterfly. Monarch o’milkweed.
Hobo Bob, come back again. Risen from agate
grave (a flung fern-spray of tender stone). What
shall I say, Natasha? Our limpid comrade. ‘sfree.