Fontegaia keeps on keepin' on...

13

 
Out the library window   beyond the Courthouse
at the end of the park   under the shady maples
& ringed with vines   lies an old well (RW's
early spring)   from whence   the plumbline goes

 
straight up into the sky.   & just as a stone
draws perfect whorls in the stream   just as it
drops beneath the surface   disappears
I would draw a set of radii   from this point   on

 
into the town   & let it pulsate, rotate
a rippling impression of   an ancient face
a Personage   as if   breathing through the ice
of frozen circumstance   warm air, wind   aslant

 
into cold soil   where the seeds are   And
this, my sketch   for an image of the Truth
- a living, breathing   parsonage   at azimuth
of plumbline-crown (its vertex   in your heart)

 
& that which is everywhere the same   inexorable
necessity   the gravity of the grave   & the
blinding roar of the sun   & the restless sea in
motion   under the moon   become slowly   amenable

 
(amen, amen) to the georgic   human hand
trembling over its seedling-keys for   the prevailing,
guiding melody   the providential path   the Way
and suddenly   over the verdant, waiting plowland

 
a harmony of   9 courting spheres   in a dance
memorious pavane   slow Sophie-seraph lightfoot
sarabande   for Roger's will-to-truth (soul liberty)
See   they whirl   in a stereopticon (Siena trance)