Yellow-gold forsythia


Down by the spring river, tossing sticks
in prehistoric Mizz,
my Jordan – little Isis-
canoes, or Ferrarese six-

wheelers; in my mind’s darkroom
recalling you – Love’s raven-
haired sybil (guardian
at the Rock’s entrance).  Your gloom

when my father’s birthday wheeled around
each April.  The yellow-gold
forsythia enfold
your mother’s grave, who died... O sound

those flowery depths, Ophelia
and rise again!  He was
a good man – rays
of intellectual Amor blessed his day;

he might have walked her from that grave.
A little light only,
through camera oscura...
you know.  You showed me her cave

in San Francisco’s spare kitchen –
where a thin light-blade
infiltrates the Maid
so Piero’s hypno-sarabande might spin

anew (red cedar, blue spruce, evergreen).
Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait with
Two Circles... one light-heavy scythe
defines this wheel’s circumference (unseen).


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