4.01.2020

in Deserto Rosso



LITTLE ROOM

Like Giuliana’s little boy, in Deserto Rosso
for 6 weeks I was on a ventilator
(“iron lung” back then).  For
Guillain-BarrĂ©.  That was 1956 or so.

Paralysis for Henry Fish Quattoir -
great reckoning in little room.
Like coffin-casket, in full bloom;
like April, breathing frailty to power.

Who shall restore the sickly Lord?
There is no temple on the earth,
no glorious basilica that’s worth
the wonder of a single child (a word

once heard with flooding tears, in Ramah).
You who are sum of all
creation – telos, quintessence, lovely corona
behold the Argos-eyed canoe of Noah.

How the universe giulianizes in you,
Giuliana (as Cusanus wrote)!
You are both verde crown & mote
of mustard seed… the whole tree, Julio!

Now Henry faints… his epileptic storm
of vertigo (at sight of blood)
flings him to Frisco neighborhood.
Where Juliet ascends… to join a swarm

of victims, falling like rain from Golden Gate
(our Twin Towers).  He stretches
out his arms… the King of Wretches,
Grail King.  Melek, MLK (Good Friday fate).

4.1.20

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