16

                ...they placed the mask in a tomb and left it there, 
                probably assuming that it would never be seen again by 
                human eyes.  That didn't matter.  Its energy would pulse  
                away in the dark, endlessly germinating.           
                                           - NY Times, 6.16.06

 
In his dream, Lazarus smelled the earth again.
With the cricket sound, and the slow mourning dove.
Only a faint scent - grass, wildflowers, clover.
It was like a memory from long ago, a sign.

 
The voice he thought he had heard outside,
in the light of the cave-door - gentle, jocular,
supplicating, sweet - now (in camera obscura)
- as if he were the cave - whispered inside.

 
As if the whole earth were a memory,
a lost tune.  Mnemonic tones, crooned
below the dove (camouflaged in its moan)
came from the planet's axis - reliquary,

 
rounding, regulant.  Washed in the stream,
Vermilion.  Now, overhead stood the sun;
Lazarus emerged.  Everyone
stretched up to him (to hobble him home).

 
Such was the dream of Lazarus, asleep in clover.
His eyes (obsidian) glazed from figments
of jade - his face like a tree (blue-green,
light pine, darkened to jasper, riverine.)

 
Only a mask - a mask of listening.
The ear to the ground - under the ground.
For the hum in the mirror, the hurtling bond
in the words : I am here (echoing, anchoring).

 
The pledge extended foliage of quiet shade.
The scent (of jonquilled soil) was tender, too.
An evening dove, atop a stony portico
of grim façade (totem of arcane crusade).