So be it...


Magnetics of a blue-green gaze, out of
resplendent horsehair. Through colored
oil. Across lacquered wood. Light poured.
Blonde, with casket of brune acacia (wheels

within Kiev-wheels, Irina). Gift of myrrh
sent through a frame. So she handed me
the stereopticon (old Providence in Tuscany).
Her mother, dove in local ground (my father's

birthday). Strange elevator, dropping scales
(Justitia and Pax, either end of Byzantine
couch). Mary Magdalen (Siena version) -
sea-blue, veiled glance (frankincense?) - all's

. And eyes well with tears. All's well.
When the local scene takes hold of its vitreous
reality, suddenly compact with very specific (US)
gravity. Down the hill from the art gallery - we'll

go find Willy's original spring, won't we? Still
there, beneath granite, iron. Like Delphic
tripod-oracle - perennial glimmer through thick
3-D shades. Primary crayon civilization, ex nihil.

Only light! A cyclo-paean (absolute devotion).
Because I love, because I love, because I love
Frisbee traveled from fire, through mauve
dusk, back to evening star (run, run...)

and in the well of years harbors (like tree
from a tiny light). Shed milk of regal
Negus-kenosis. Hunch of equality (Lincoln-
simplicity). Double-thing, W-ing from eternity.

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