Lanthanum 12.12

12

Hey Man, you well... oasis of God-with-us.

Palm where royal sun & air, waving spray

& flickering rays, commune... unite.  Hey

Man, you well... listen to monk Maximus

(Black Sea susurrus, rustling sure) when he

binds the twin-bright lenses in one violet vine-

canoe.  One cosmos welded out of two-in-one

as palms enjoin, fingers entwine (with circuity

seraphim, above a mercy throne).  Orbiting

around with happy gyroskips – star-symmetry

of one galactic sepulchre (one verdant, empty

tomb).  Each integral distinctive soul inhabiting

a 4-fold 28-point breathing-space (diamond-

jubilee integrity) – each person flourishing

in freedom, dignity, as through a polishing

event... washed clean – unveiling adamant

pebble, immaculate.  You are microcosmos,

child – a human akme of the universe;

infolding anima & animal, sunburst

of intellect & elemental dust (anthropos

57-sauce).  Hey Man, draw near then

to the hayloft where this infant cry began.

Photon-barn, myrrh-box of the Magdalen;

flinty kamen sponsoring each epithalamian

parade, ring-dance... his Maximus confession.

In the forlorn garden, where a little gate

waits in the shade of cypress, cottonwood

(some almond thought’s sweet silent session

    6.20.12