cold reflective casket


They’re readying the great Webb Telescope
to spy on deepest space,
remotest time; a Falcon-Ace
of 18 hexagons – unfolding envelope

or massive sunflower of minstrel mirrors,
golden Land o’Lakes
lenses.  Infinity takes
a very cold reflective casket (yours,

Ophelia).  Meanwhile, down here below,
some Leopardian teller or
Poe-boy bookseller
must trace Columbian fall of sparrow

into bleakest night, last
trumpery.  O quintessence
of hollow volumeHence,
3-Card Monty – hateful guest!

As if the door to honey-milky
Providence were locked,
foredoomed.  A thousand shocks
in sovereign succession, so quickly

hammered to an Irish skull...
Earthquake, heartbreak.
Ophelia is in the lake –
my center sinks to muddy soil.

Sun gleams in fireplace of camera,
her little room on high –
her lampblack like a sty
in prism orange (strange negative aura).


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