A little hilltop town somewhere
in Tuscany modelled the Mount
of Earthly Paradise. When Dante
and his antique guide slowly felt their

way (blind men, circling around
the ruined breastworks of a ridge,
following a scroll over the edge
of the known universe) they found

themselves humming a familiar tune
(the way potter X's fingers flicker
aslant a red-leaf bole - quicker
than thought figures an X-strewn

cosmos). Love, the rest note
at the foot of ranging harmonies -
the knot in incunabular interstices
of ink, time, jealousy. The mote

in the builder's eye, the tear
in the mosaic... pervasive
octave-frequency, alive
and breathing (here, here).

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