Now I need somebody to resurrect me.

The "eye-in-hand" is one of the most ancient visual symbols in North America, from the mound-builder peoples of the Mississippi bottomlands. Here's the opening of "Palm Sunday":


Limping, climbing like a Lazarus
from the well of amor, you wave goodby.
Stigmatized and astigmatic, she.
Passing beyond alarums, carnivals

in the distance, Mardi Gras
in the bent mirror, marvelous,
far-off now, larmes
des choses

your worn shoes.
Hand waves.

A valentine arrives from prison:
a feather; a blue iris
enveloped in glass;
a tiny lead pellet. Anon.

The thickness of the lens slows light:
ask Lena how it's done, Einstein.
Absolute zero, swimming, sun.
Blackstone here - was all for nought.

Like an arrow like a grain of sand
through your heart, you carry it
and live (livid, limpid, lit,
littoral, ghost). Like a wave

in your hand, the eye turns inward,
a wave diving into itself; and a gnomon
recedes toward noon, toward
everyone. You keep your word.

No comments: