Saturday, July 14, 2007

Broadmoor Sacrarium

In the primordial soup of midsummer,
in the thick green shade

the old and new transact their final deals.

Midair, indifferent ghosts wait for them,
pure patience, perfect as butlers.
Underfoot, the boardwalk groans with time.

I am a pilgrim, avid for the light
that some call blue illusion or even corposant,
but in this time of plague and gunpowder
my misbuilt ark lists starward under the triple weight
and the captain says we must jettison everything,
even ourselves, especially ourselves,

but how ?

Climb out of the hold
onto the deck

where what you scream into the wind
storms back into your face like ice.
Close your eyes, your last
earthly treasure,

and the water, bled of green,
intincts, indents.

Remember the sunny meadow
where we once prayed together, saying

lady bug, Queen Anne's lace and

O clemens, o pia, o dulcis -- ?

It drains
straight into the earth.

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