DOOM-BELL
The simple poem sets its seal on the day
(signum of yearning, lack
& bronze heartbreak).
It doesn’t create, but confirms, I say –
tacit equipoise of universe,
with roaring hearth
mirroring each heart
in Milky Way (our fiery nurse).
& of that translucent softest koinonia
the poem’s just a line.
Graven tattoo or riverine
El (whorled conscience of Columbia).
So when the Rabbi hums a restoration of all things
we understand what he means
& feel it in our bones –
sunlight in the kitchen supersedes all kings.
Liberty-tyranny-liberty; light-dark-light...
your Florentine chessboard
migrates its word-hoard
to Skye, & beyond (stern Ocean slate).
Your buoy rides the moiling salt
like a lucky pawn
become kingpin again;
Hamlet swings the doom-bell... halt,
who goes there? – solo Ophelia
hoovers up all Denmark
from her West Branch park,
& Evening Star glows like Astraea.
12.9.19
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