14

 
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).