& then he played a brief encore a haunted
(Chopin?) gypsy melody an elegy
quiet, mysterious & sad maybe
for his own people (from Lvov) (Beethoven

counterpoint) and somewhere
there is an axle of the rolling earth
in the heartlands in the heartlands of
your soul I hear that wasp intoning there

magnified from the well of deep rose evening
a drone (a B-flat miner) zeroing in on a target
of concentric colored rings his whisper-chariot
uniting with a deeper bass like a maestro's fledgling

son down deep there in the well of milk and honey
where the milky Word reigns raining upward
from Eternity and shore to shore a pillared
arc arching back high over the makings of a day

I want to go there now into the heartlands
where the wasp sings at the axle of the earth
and wheels like a master of the clay an eagle-
wraith diving toward the dove where she stands

hesitant spouse bereft widow (amid neglected
purple irises beneath bent lilac wands)
transfixed at the sepulchre (her hands
against a rim of cold, solid granite)

& hears that other, deeper voice from the spring
through the full piano-panoply (drift of May
silver & gold) as a matrix of concentric waves
(streaming river-water) melding into a ring

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