Of Marcel Proust, of Oblomov


In the old octagonal gazebo
shaded from sunrays
screened from mosquitoes
I think of Marcel Proust, of Oblomov;

of the haze of tranquil summers
in an equilibrium
of nature.  Let it come.
The books fade into memoirs,

epics filigree life’s borders
with remote heroics
while the housecat licks
his fur, & children play recorders.

To live life on the edge
of the petunia patch.
To bandage every scratch,
wipe every tear...  sea-azure pledge!

Noah’s flute-compass – a pilot’s
Providence – the homing
pigeon’s purple ring
of ocarina nostos-pivots...

Deep down in the teeming orbit
of the clay, a blessed
favor lifts each nested
creature into intricate

brush-feathered limestone – emerald
fresco, where white-
haired eagles congregate –
floresce into the parchment (gold).


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