Lanthanum 12.13

summons up remembrance of things past).
The sum of summer suns, & shady groves.
The regal Word, lasting, sustains our loves
& raises them, renewed, & holds them fast
to Paradise – a Petersburg beyond all puny 
tyrants’ paltry sway.  Their temporary swag-
swagger, these staggering boyars of gulag...
each chill-fired terror of the territory...
fuming mob & desiccated Pharaoh... all
shall go : all shall bow down before le R├Ęgle
d’Amour.  Who comes disguised as fruit-seller,
orphan... persecuted woman, broken crawl
of superstition-scapegoat... fraud’s victim,
a bully’s game.  Who travels incognito,
silent... Blackstone in his orchard, or
the gardener near Olivet... It’s him,
she cried.  My Everyman : is He.  World
pivots on her utterance... as the wasp
needles the axis of the earth.  Osip,
disguised as stolen meal... goldfinch, hurled
up to eternal granary.  To feed there, &
to feed... among the atoning seraphim.
We shall return there, you & I, some
summer evening – Anna, Elena, & Marina –
Gumilev, Brodsky, Osip & Hope... all singing
pilgrims to the akme-stone : that human grail,
that cup of sorrows turned to joy, that real
St. Eu – chrism of Louis & T.S. (sobornosting).

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