6.15.2019

in the gold realm




ASCENSION DAY

My friend Chris in New Zealand
emailed (on Ascension Day)
about that homely display
of bare feet, trampolining to cloud

in the Lorenzetti fresco (or
was it Philip Guston?)
under the superscription
of a proscenium arch.  Flower

of early Renaissance mind
echoing (if necessary)
your mirror-quality
of reality.  Who will so bend

the boarhound from the boar,
Raven from Nevermore?
Is this your last cigar?
Plein air puffs from a planet’s core.

Limestone shreds of the labyrinth
at Chartres were sort of a letdown.
Rough work.  All the gold gone.
The mower set out to mow... absinthe

green, moss green clasping the scent.
The emerald pentagram
shadowed in the sheep’s I AM
quickens the dead husks in a fundament

of everlasting life; & when the Eternal comes
it will be as we remembered
in the gold realm of childhood –
when time swells (the drone lingers, hums).

6.14.19


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