13
Natasha, from her tree branch, arrowed at me
an ember of fire. Serious. Now you must look
to the pilot-wheel of things. This’ll be a picnic
like no other, poet. Oedipus solved the wily
Sphinx’s jest : the answer was Man. But a fire
at heart of each of us – the thundering hearth-
volcano of the core – outdoes all human effort
to discern, or torpid wit to articulate. This dire
declaration shook my courage. Never fear,
Henry. Haven’t you been curious to learn
about these lenses? It was true. Their golden
rims enclosed a sort of figure 8 – a super-clear-
brisk pearliness, bisected by a thin horizon line
of silken violet thread. At their center, where
the ovals joined, a small upright elongate sphere
swelled in a mirror-light... & here the most fine
rose-violet crosshairs met. These octave-frames
(zoomy O-zone) were summoned up, configured
out of waves of whispered sound – as if wired
by droning bees. Lent to anyone who proclaims
sustaining harmony – youngster Milo, for example,
with his Globetrotter tune, in Brooklyn. Cosmos,
Henry! Call it a marriage of polarities. Trellis &
vine, motion & stillness; known, unknown... supple
wedding-whorl of contraries. Now take a look.
I squint... & see a haze around St. Louis, near
the river. Blurred... a mist... & suddenly appear
14 great arches – circled – knotted at their peak.
6.2.12
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