Out of gray Bruegel-skies, a little snow,
then sunlight. Old Providence streets
could be 14th century too - meeting
the mind's eye in a dumb-show

dream-vision. The mind's mirror
and the mirror in the horsehair fresco
mirror each other (squeaky merry-go-
round's warped arrow, errant caballero).

An old fumbling sinners' waltz, broken
accordion (my life, my life...). And
somehow, out of this, expectations
of expiation, civic destiny (Hoboken

in Hagia Sophia - pinpoint in a dome
of mordant gilt). But the dream-key
is the dreamer (Glenn Gould, shy
hobo huddled in igloo-kingdom

tinder of snowflakes touching the keys
to Goldberg variants - shimmering
so... so is each tree a rustle
of many trees... tiny hands tickling

air, wind). Lorenzetti
held civic fortitude in his mind's eye
until the commune coalesced - Justitia
a naked femme aloft over complexity

of multitudes - a last motif
beyond the turmoil of desire;
the common good entire
our final interest, massive

and first. (Only a tiny hanged man
weighted against the great commune.
Shadow of oneiric dissonance; one
flaw in painful, panoramic span...)

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