12-24-2025, 09:17 AM
The Door in a Field
We enter a closet to an icy land
and find it melting, in heat
as such an invitation often
granted—rarely stands,
nor mildly would it whirl in place.
Now, in the open, chimes
of former midnights noon that
pelted effigy, blazon foliage
scarecrow-flash like a ladder on sight,
spiral patterning the midget brain.
That vultures would open pond
to amphibian chaos, and sire
beknighted friends to heroines
marching sigils and banners hardened
in glitter, and pyre the question dear
that, after all, who would think
the wind itself could pipe the gates
for paths more silver-tongued than gold.
A master sees all as arbitrary,
the mage absolute;
together, the pulsing zero
of the here and now
shares routine difference
on a plane, flat,
curving and in flight.
Simon Magus levitates
in an order in which
to fall is to dunk
in the very water
the fish who share it
breathe.
This is first, second nor third idea,
but the rondelet of affirmation
and accusation, cautious as a bridegroom
before the very cross he trusts.—
Liquid modernity culls grave
imagisms in frames that flash
and counteract the way
dogs, once the enemy of cats,
now, though not far from friend
to man, are more a lunar clamant
than a cute and coddling meme.
If the Lion of Judah can still
comfortably hang from a tower,
horning the very moon it distrusts:
there may be an age of imagination,
unfiltered through the orphic hieroglyphs
and token margins that wink and shoot
and tangle, tongue to feted cheek,
obituaries and morning blinds.
What the sun has to offer,
after millennia of shouted and quiet
abuse, may be that annual burning
may be not only dots connected
but worms to other lives.
Resting costly on the table,
but free, and shelfless, and fairly,
saintly, maligned.
We enter a closet to an icy land
and find it melting, in heat
as such an invitation often
granted—rarely stands,
nor mildly would it whirl in place.
Now, in the open, chimes
of former midnights noon that
pelted effigy, blazon foliage
scarecrow-flash like a ladder on sight,
spiral patterning the midget brain.
That vultures would open pond
to amphibian chaos, and sire
beknighted friends to heroines
marching sigils and banners hardened
in glitter, and pyre the question dear
that, after all, who would think
the wind itself could pipe the gates
for paths more silver-tongued than gold.
A master sees all as arbitrary,
the mage absolute;
together, the pulsing zero
of the here and now
shares routine difference
on a plane, flat,
curving and in flight.
Simon Magus levitates
in an order in which
to fall is to dunk
in the very water
the fish who share it
breathe.
This is first, second nor third idea,
but the rondelet of affirmation
and accusation, cautious as a bridegroom
before the very cross he trusts.—
Liquid modernity culls grave
imagisms in frames that flash
and counteract the way
dogs, once the enemy of cats,
now, though not far from friend
to man, are more a lunar clamant
than a cute and coddling meme.
If the Lion of Judah can still
comfortably hang from a tower,
horning the very moon it distrusts:
there may be an age of imagination,
unfiltered through the orphic hieroglyphs
and token margins that wink and shoot
and tangle, tongue to feted cheek,
obituaries and morning blinds.
What the sun has to offer,
after millennia of shouted and quiet
abuse, may be that annual burning
may be not only dots connected
but worms to other lives.
Resting costly on the table,
but free, and shelfless, and fairly,
saintly, maligned.