the poem is a sort of Edicule


So then, the poem is a sort of Edicule?
My allegory’s all unglued.
Runny gouache, stewed
river clay.  Some no-count school.

The building, trembling in devolution
shored up like a veteran
with iron-rivet skeleton.
Metamorphosis by desperation.

My babble-model of the cosmos –
molded on a mini-dome
within a dome (Jerusalem-
fond matryoshka doll).  The keys

to a box, where lie a bunch of keys.
Over meleki limestone
slab, one forest olive-green
icon.  Your madre of collapsing gaze

rains down (with her clay ointment jar).
He is not here, he
is not here.  She’s
muted as trumpet, or Morning Star –

an eye-in-hand, an ocean tear.
Light blazes (calmly
coruscant undying day).
He is not here, he is not here.

Wind mews in muscular oak tree.
They’re up in Galilee,
maybe Cahokia... you’ll see.
Inventing deeds of agape – live poetry.


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