This quiet August day toward
the cusp of autumn. Green
vine-light in the cavern
where Henry hides his raven-word.
That empty chair in Dante’s sky-
deep rose, for all the hoped-
for prophets, emperors...
& here’s Sophia’s little throne (my
dancing-master’s rosy resting-
spot). Let her skip
fearless across the ship
of state, her toy basilica, questing;
the Greyhound of the Lord, her
vengeance, comes to this –
gray clouds of Providence
replete with rain; a pregnant mother
radiant with clearing day; the shades
of persecution blown away
by ocarinas (clay-
shell turtledoves, dolphin parades).
Ineffable golden Hephaestus-net...
veil of corn fleece over
a West Branch face. Her
sister in D.C. (Adams duet) –
icon of Miriam & Magdalen,
implicit in the sun
of Washington... cartwheels, Columbian.