Lanthanum 11.8

Like Tom Thumb in a vertigo-revery, I woke
disoriented – as if tossed through the spiral
of a huge index fingerprint.  & when the whirl
finally subsided, I lay in the grass – my back
curled against the foot of an oak.  It was
Prospect Park.  Roger stepped as ever through
his granite portal; a lone mourning dove (blue-
white-silvery) was fluting low, ruffling feathers,
perched on Williams’ outlimned limb.  A tiny
white parachute of cottonwood seed softly 
sailed by (28 inches over my head).  Swiftly
the dove rose – & dove into the green tapestry
of a horse chestnut tree.  & then again I heard her
voice – Natasha’s – from the depth of that mountain
of candle-blooms (tiered ark-menorah).  A wind- 
whisper... like susurrus of light rushes over
us.  Henry... you’ve left behind old Hobo now.
You’ve made the first circuit of a rainbow triad,
surveyed your Lazarusland with my midnight-
sunlit calipersLook again : retrace the furrow
of that blooming plow.  I stood beside Roger
at the edge of the cliff, gazed west again... & saw
a triple rainbow, through a haze of dew.  Below,
plunged in Cahokia ground, that silver tuning-fork –
droning, vibrating to an octave chord (B-flat).
& there, beneath the soaring span, the russet
figure of a mighty one... shrouded in delicate
glittering seraphim-feathers, graven : OLIVET.

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