LITTLE GROTTO
Day like a gouache by David Jones.
Diaphanous vision, muted
by sea-wind, raincloud.
Mountain, meadow, rust (earth tones).
The nightmare of the Great War
like sulphur tuning fork
or buried line in Eden Park
commingles its dilemma in a metaphor
like rose in steel dust (Roger’s compass,
pointing NNW).
& Image of the Beast is
emblem for the matrix of that enterprise
encrypted at the center of a corn maze
where Satan & his Minotaur
(ICE-bound, possessed) are
snared (handcuffed in their own cold glaze).
The Man of Lawlessness, like Terrible
Ivan – he makes his own desire
the absolute measure;
he’s lost to caritas (in his own bubble).
Imagine Ghiberti’s golden doors
at the Baptistery in Florence
with angels forced to dance
to the lash of demonic matadors…
imagine Eugenio, alongside Clizia
locked in the library
with Mussolini – her sturdy
sun-glance, over the chessboard… ah,
*
bright wings! When Everyman & Woman
breathe in the heartland
of their living temple… &
Joachim’s eagle plummets through the Plan
of Ages! Providential restoration, O
downglide of Holy Ghost!
Multitudinous host
of human happiness – blue emerald glow
of soft & silent cat’s-eye revolutions,
roll! & be the planetary
hearthland, wide prairie…
deep swell of Thunderbird flute sessions!
Because all the world’s a stage, coach;
the play’s the salty verse
for catching Eddy the Perverse,
who suckles his Corona like a roach
out of the Minotaur’s bleak heart –
rotten as… who can say?
God knows. Only way
’s to pinwheel back where we start,
Pocahontas – up to the swirling
origin of springs.
A little grotto brings
its whisper of clear water. Everything
draws near. Pleroma for Fisher King
(little lad in oak tree)
shines, golden, leafy. His
mother smiles… rainbows from nothing.
3.28.20
