ROLLING DOOR
Henry, magnanimous prince
like Saggy Mundo on his
Tower Hill (the Witch’s
Hat) waits in his chains, listens.
Them animal pelts smell bad,
sez Hobo (Sancho
P. Zee). Life, my friends – no
dream, declaims Sir Galahad.
The little paralyzed air-prince
like a baby Fisher King
(Guillain-Barré) would bring
last summa out of everything (wince).
Like Adam taking Eve’s advice
he’d melodize the whole
isle to an apple donut
hole – & give it to his son (nice!).
Pallas Athena wore an aegis-skin
with gold palladium-bangles
dangling at all angles
from her circuiting Argo-spin;
it was a sacrifice, like Morning Star
or Igor’s Rite of Spring –
the icon bearing everything
buried in grassy Galilee, in a jar
of myrrh (brimful, for Magdalen).
Lippo Memmi pinxit
(now in Providence). What
X will mark the spot, Justinian?
*
What hour marks the lux fiat
when Mary in her pontoon-
boat (sun-gold doubloon
nailed to the keel) will celebrate
the whorl of Theotokos-kenosis-
hypostasis – on a clay
wheel (out of Cahokia)?
Whose eye-in-hand is... Henry’s
sister-cuz? Whom doth the Grail serve?
I mean the grey stone
hands in that quaternion
of mudstream... – who has the nerve
to lift the lid of Henry’s sepulcher?
In Resurrection Cemetery
(northeast of Pig’s Eye)
Osiris waits for Isis-murmur –
America sleeps in her old nightmare
until that Pussycat (on Easter)
knocks the rolling door
out of the way... & Henry’s there!
Limping from his throne of rosy clay,
his island ocean-ray –
borne on his own birthday
like a faerie Pharaoh (Narragansett Bay)
to the Rose Lighthouse (near Gould
Island), in chariot
of dawnlight (mauve
& violet) – like a Sun Ken (holy fool’d).
2.21.19
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