Natasha vanished. But I sensed the blue eye
rimmed by her cloudmobile... an afterimage
curled across my retina. High on that ridge
I closed my eyes, under the dark leaf-canopy.
The inner lining of the retina, its curvature...
whirlpool where all our images are swallowed up
&, welling forth again, become our own – a cup
of wine, mingled with bloodstream... fingerprint
imprimature (a human whorl). In that darkness
I seemed to see a blazing white road – jagged –
like lightning on the ground. It climbed upward
toward the very oak I stood beneath... fastness
at the apex of a green mountain. & then I saw
behind the oak, a wooden church – its outer walls
frescoed with ancient holy men & women (pastels
weathered, faint... turning ethereal, as angels are).
& then I heard my friend’s kind whispervoice again,
within the leaves. As these sunbeaten figures fade,
so we earthlings crumble to clay, limestone... laid
into fern-prints... untrackable scars. Yet within
that modest house, one priest – Melchizedek –
offers one gift – himself : that, when we share,
lifts us in union, into Paradise (the angels’ lair).
Then I opened my eyes. Familiar capital, decked
out in dust, noise. An ordinary day, our home.
Yet in my retinal gloom, I see... a dark cavern.
Moonglow, from sunken pools. On limestone
curve... bright horses, bulls. Tall angels roam.