Down by the spring river, tossing sticks
in prehistoric Mizz,
my Jordan – little Isis-
canoes, or Ferrarese six-
wheelers; in my mind’s darkroom
recalling you – Love’s raven-
haired sybil (guardian
at the Rock’s entrance). Your gloom
when my father’s birthday wheeled around
each April. The yellow-gold
your mother’s grave, who died... O sound
those flowery depths, Ophelia –
and rise again! He was
a good man – rays
of intellectual Amor blessed his day;
he might have walked her from that grave.
A little light only,
through camera oscura...
you know. You showed me her cave
in San Francisco’s spare kitchen –
where a thin light-blade
infiltrates the Maid
so Piero’s hypno-sarabande might spin
anew (red cedar, blue spruce, evergreen).
Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait with
Two Circles... one light-heavy scythe
defines this wheel’s circumference (unseen).