Ides of October


This bright transparency of mid-
October Providence –
sweet-sad remembrance
of the princely sun (Caesar’s eyelid,

drooping into Ides).  Boethius,
last of the Romans, slips
away into Sophia-deeps,
drowses beneath dogwood leaves;

little feathery flesh-tone coins
of wild oats dangle, sway
on pale green stalks today.
She’ll plant them with Galla’s remains,

he mutters to himself.  The monarch’s
just a social butterfly;
none need any longer die
in her doctrine.  Light-waves, arcs

of arches, radiating from
a central hearth... archaic
woodland (near Itasca)
where the springing pendulum

of springs is born.  Moss-green Alph
to mauve Omega, vibrant
strings (O most ancient
of lays!) knot Ocarina Everysylph

into her vale of Inca-tiers 
a tinder Lips Monastery,
quicksilver Philosophy
lifts Rome to Mexican cedars.


tame wild oats

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