16
In the morning I was curious, asking Natasha for
her special, spectral spectacles again. I wanted
to inspect her with them. Diffidently she granted
my request... almost held back. You want to share
what I give you secretly, in my arboreal chamber,
Henry. But this is not the way. Here, take
this lump of softened frankincense – will make
your vision clearer. So I brush that amber
gum across the gem... & look at her. Dark
glance of wounded eye. Lightning-streak
across her brow, below a stormy jet-black
crown. Guileless, she semaphors to trunk
of lithe hieroglyphic tree, nearby : aflower now
(untimely) with steep flocks of lamplit bloom.
& in that magnifying glass, the trunk became
a river, & the stream branched – overflown
with saints, philosophers... martyrs, kings (David
with psaltery, & Maximus with scroll; Abraham
with shepherd-crook, & Miriam, with arms
flung wide in song). This Yesh-tree’s gravèd,
frescoed on a tiny church – forested away deep
in mountains of Romania, Henry. Someday
you’ll cross that porch. Press tears of myrrh
across the little central lens. I did. Weep,
poets, for your hearts of brass! I see Natasha
proceed slowly up a path, in Voronezh... & then
a desolate someone, by garden grave. O Man...
these lenses but enlarge my eyes. Ephphatha.
6.3.12
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