MORSE CODE
Once, one limpid winter morning,
at the little white shoebox
with Russian Orthodox
sky-blue-gold Cyrillic writing
trellising the doorway, I noticed
a young man cross himself
climbing its wooden steps
& pass alone into its lamplit
depths. The anthill maze of time
& history is echoed
in the heart’s Morse code –
labyrinthine motherlode (of crime
& punishment, betrayal &
remorse); stone battlements
& iron tongues foment
confusion in the stricken mind;
the hungry roar would hush forever
every low flute-sound
of doves (tremulous under-
side of olive leaves, their silver
ripplings). & yet a lightfoot ghost
still paces pine barrens
past tombs of emperors
& saints... his testament recast
the chaos into complex rings
of plenitude, redemption,
commonweal – knotation
of crosstreads (eternal things).
2.23.16
