under the sign of the Virgin


Herod the Great is out hunting tonight
to make himself great again.
History, all over.  Hen
clucks in pigpen.  Overhead, bright

Star of Stars yet hovers (esoteric,
weightless).  Invisible world
of worlds to come – squirreled
away in a barn (near Bethlehem, Pa).

Maximus, transfixed by history,
his writing hand severed,
still corresponded
with his nephew (far end of Black Sea).

Hen’s fishing for sense, like Hobo
the limp lamprey (curled
on the riverbank).  Churl?
Fisher King?  Overhead – Virgo.

Not the Twins, but something like.
Twin sitters.  Throned
drones, long retired
from hive (72 bricks of...).

Not trying to be obscure here,
that f’sure.  Innocence
dances through the universe
unfathomed on our faithless sphere.

On her Milky Way.  Here Grace Ravlin
sketches a summer evening
at Mt. Vernon – fingering
the treasure map (Pennsylvanian)


tracing a quiet constellation
echoed on the ground.
Her wisdom is profound
through purity.  Just perfection

mirrored in frame of Providence;
sunlit warmth of hearth
stirring Pig’s Eye from death
to life (St. Paul to Minneapolis).

The artist makes an eye with fingertips
at edge of scabbard.
Clue to labyrinth.  Slips

into Gloucester (blind man’s buff)
to paint twin boats
nestled in soft coats
of emerald.  Grace is enough.

Ceres, under Sirius... sparrows,
hysterica passio...
madness of Angelo
or any other tyrannos

threatening an alien child
(warped in labyrinth
of jealousy).  Absinthe,
minted at Fort Knox – wild

wrath of slighted boar (the king’s
own Fury).  Here’s the church,
here’s the steeple – open
the door... (where the sea-choir sings).


Grace Ravlin, Overlooking George Washington's Garden, 1922

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