round which we merry go


Now, at dusk, the early lilacs
breathe out their scent.
Tired crabapple’s bent
limbs burst into a climax-

galaxy of blossoms, pink & white –
rhyming those slight cloud-
petals overhead
like Botticelli’s passionate

notations for the Paradiso
(Beatrice’s dancing
flame-spirits, candescing
in a last heaven-crescendo).

Old splendor of May-month springs
anew.  None shall judge her.
Like Osip’s meteor
flung suddenly through Saturn’s rings

Ophelia steps from a weedy break
wearing Ariadne’s crown –
grace, honor & renown
clothe her again, out of elm-book

of Primavera-life – primordial
Persephone, sharing
one diamond ring
(soul’s Solomonic seal, octagonal).

The river’s profile of limestone
reflects its lambent flow.
Each wave curls now
light glances toward one flint Person


the intellect sees through the show
of leafy cottonwood sheen
(black limbs lean toward one
point round which we merry go).

It’s personal, in a fleeting, refugee
sense, mumbles Hobo.
The stone beyond Cosmo.
The source of lightning & oak tree –

where little Henry hid one day
like Bonnie Charlie in a bole
of mossy acorn-meal.
The soul is preternatural, he say.

Soul is King, & Queen.  Mary
floresces rose, in bloom
beneath almond moon...
Hamlet, Ophelia marry.

Adamantine chair of motherlode...
gravitational pull
of con vexed out of Hell.
Adam’s evening (nails in road).

Looming in the linen of the dream,
the dawn fleece of time...
the scapegoat’s crime,
the victim’s cornerstone (walled

without seam into apex of dome).
This your chink of light
through the long jail night.
Your Camelot (milk-train kingdom).


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