One golden witchetty grub

Once again, I countermand my own resolution... the urge to share is hard to resist.


They’ve found a fracture in the stone
unnoticed before.
The Holy Sepulchre
is buckling beneath the weight of its own

chapel.  & the confessions have
at last made common vow –
the alpha & omega
of restorations.  Centuries of

soot from votive candles must
be wiped clean; the vault
shored with titanium bolts
& stabilizing mortar, all the dust

blown free – for a strange energy
is here.  The Holy One
has set his seal upon
Jerusalemthe seal of a kiss (hey

ey yo).  Blind King Oedipus
is pharmakon – both
curse & cure; an oath
of the Aranda limns a sacred circus

for the Origin beyond hunger
& prey.  Man is both Man
& Grub; one handspan
joins them, sacred totem-pair

distinct without division, separation
or confusion.  Would
you return to the Wood
where, riven-branching, all began?


All the world’s a stage.  The Totem
glimmers in earth-cavern
like a mémoire of perfection;
handprint of omni-profundum,

quiet & invisible as wind.
The hand carves a circle
over gray sea, pearl
of adamantine quiddity – your mind

& heart, your soul, my wounded Psyche.
What will they find then,
beneath the slab?  One
golden Witchetty Grub?  One Nike,

linen, soiled by jogging Time?
I think they might unveil
a lost fresco – pale
replica (by Piero) of the same

design that, through the Ice Age,
lifts the crocus.  Stubborn,
indomitable baton,
both crozier & calumet – rage

will not overwhelm your calm beauty.
I think of Late Romances
revolving into dances
all around the Globe... O, we

have not yet seen the final act!
Ineffable victory
of meekness... it shall be,
because it is, always.  O blooming Fact!


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