They’re readying the great Webb Telescope
to spy on deepest space,
remotest time; a Falcon-Ace
of 18 hexagons – unfolding envelope
or massive sunflower of minstrel mirrors,
golden Land o’Lakes
lenses. Infinity takes
a very cold reflective casket (yours,
Ophelia). Meanwhile, down here below,
some Leopardian teller or
must trace Columbian fall of sparrow
into bleakest night, last
trumpery. O quintessence
of hollow volume! Hence,
3-Card Monty – hateful guest!
As if the door to honey-milky
Providence were locked,
foredoomed. A thousand shocks
in sovereign succession, so quickly
hammered to an Irish skull...
Ophelia is in the lake –
my center sinks to muddy soil.
Sun gleams in fireplace of camera,
her little room on high –
her lampblack like a sty
in prism orange (strange negative aura).