...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 fa├žade (totem of arcane crusade).

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