LITTLE ROOM
Like Giuliana’s little boy, in Deserto Rosso
for 6 weeks I was on a ventilator
(“iron lung” back then). For
Guillain-Barré. 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
