Lanthanum 12.10

10

Natasha vanished.  But I sensed the blue eye

rimmed by her cloudmobile... an afterimage

curled across my retina.  High on that ridge

I closed my eyes, under the dark leaf-canopy.

The inner lining of the retina, its curvature...

whirlpool where all our images are swallowed up

&, welling forth again, become our own – a cup

of wine, mingled with bloodstream... fingerprint

imprimature (a human whorl).  In that darkness

I seemed to see a blazing white road – jagged –

like lightning on the ground.  It climbed upward

toward the very oak I stood beneath... fastness

at the apex of a green mountain.  & then I saw

behind the oak, a wooden church – its outer walls

frescoed with ancient holy men & women (pastels

weathered, faint... turning ethereal, as angels are).

& then I heard my friend’s kind whispervoice again,

within the leaves.  As these sunbeaten figures fade,

so we earthlings crumble to clay, limestone... laid

into fern-prints... untrackable scars.  Yet within

that modest house, one priest – Melchizedek –

offers one gift – himself : that, when we share,

lifts us in union, into Paradise (the angels’ lair).

Then I opened my eyes.  Familiar capital, decked

out in dust, noise.  An ordinary day, our home.

Yet in my retinal gloom, I see... a dark cavern.

Moonglow, from sunken pools.  On limestone

curve... bright horses, bulls.  Tall angels roam.

  6.18.12