Lanthanum 11.13

Natasha, from her tree branch, arrowed at me
an ember of fire.  Serious.  Now you must look
to the pilot-wheel of thingsThis’ll be a picnic
like no other, poetOedipus solved the wily
Sphinx’s jest : the answer was ManBut a fire
at heart of each of usthe thundering hearth-
volcano of the coreoutdoes all human effort
to discern, or torpid wit to articulate.  This dire
declaration shook my courage.  Never fear,
HenryHaven’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 soundas if wired
by droning beesLent to anyone who proclaims
sustaining harmonyyoungster Milo, for example,
with his Globetrotter tune, in Brooklyn.  Cosmos,
HenryCall it a marriage of polaritiesTrellis &
vine, motion & stillness; known, unknown... supple
wedding-whorl of contrariesNow 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.

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