We abide beside you, swept the mournful pines;
we abide. Shade of a modest mother's
radiant moss, lichen (forest floor).
A steadfast, windswept point. Shine, shine.

A pair of humble shoulders, sloping, strong
lift from an upright spine of sweet
mercurial water-spray. Pivot
of a leaky dome - a swivel-spire among

the vineyard hills. Whose shadow
hefts a globe at last? Antea's lambkin?
Atlas, Sinai, onyx, obsidian? Slight kingpin-
hobo, fallen into milk... just presque vue.

Wheels within wheels gird the mappamundo
in the tower. The Campo's curvature
capitulates a horserace calendar.
Her walls reiterate the green hills' O

and disappear into the teeming earth,
its tender dream, its true beginning
(sprung from tight-wound ring). An
India in you, dear - see her shine forth.

And who is the painful knower there
(inept) in frigid billows, bald gray sea?
Whose hand impressed a sailor's sympathy
(radius of descending bathysphere)

upon a cavernous echo-design
of hollow vault, inconsolable pine?
I know the name. Where wells begin.
Where moss grows over runes; jasmine.

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