To imitate Francis, or Guillem d’Orange;
not to turn from the world,
but my own greedy churl
to whom the world panders (strange
profit in dust). In the sweet flame
of yearning day-lilies,
to glimpse a dew-sprung rose
labyrinth... Love’s beckoning game.
Transfiguration of a maze of sighs –
of Giuliana’s longing,
Henry Cat’s sad reckoning...
all those winding trails of Psyche,
Ariadne’s ingle eye. The far Gate
shimmers there, in Frisco Bay;
an M, as of a catenary
smile suspended, doubles you (checkmate);
your azure horizon draws its line
between twin vanishing points,
like pillars of four pines
feathered to a target (mine).
The wellspring of the soul is as
a lodestone (from beyond
the Milky Way). Fond
depths of Holy-Land – Eureka-adze
or axis of the earth. Bee-mouth,
hinge of honey-door
where uncreated light pours
through... sunbeam, raying north & south.