bottled in an oak-knot


A silver filigree of January ice
atop the Mississippi.
An eye from remote milky
paradise congeals mid-stream.

In the mandorla, the king smiles
who must die.  Rain
wells from Magdalenian
locks, sways down the aisles.

Reality’s an unctuous parasite
whose masculine will
melds to feminine style.
Psyche’s a rose (hermaphrodite).

You search the scriptures, yet
you do not come to Me.
My mother is a refugee,
her kid’s a goldfinch in a net.

Light shivers off the snow, & down
the stream.  Only a dream.
A 3-dimensional scheme
with vanishing pt. in Providence town.

They chased that woman to her grave,
who danced in Paris on the eve
of the Great War.  Her wave
of splendor... Morning Star’s mild sleeve.

La Mancha waits like Camelot
for the happy restoration
of good ship Madeleine
Marie’s cosine (bottled in an oak-knot).


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