If we look once more at your Topsfield
Aquinas-map, Dante –
that earthy horn of plenty
floored by starry sarabande (sealed
fan of luminous phenomena)
the heavy things of Time
rehearse the Salem crime
with simple weight of rigid clay –
ice-cold, stone-cold, bereft of life.
The line sags from the bridge;
the daughter of a lost age
droops, off-balancing (soul-grief).
Quantum quirks of spooky action
powder another image
for displaced rage
into the time-funnel... dissatisfaction
with oneself provokes a personal despair.
We do not know who’s there.
Halloween is in the air;
brown leaves congeal to pumpkin hair,
the angry clown is not your father
anymore. O Juliet,
the phony craven despot
crafted no safety net... look further.
A rippling of seashore memory
brings grey gulls to sleep.
The peacock’s eyes gaze deep
as Argo... hold her now, Hagia Sophie.