Flying between amethyst eyes
and locks of cloudy zinc,
I propel my winged soul
down the ruddy highway.
Evening changes the color of her
inviting eyes; I watch
her lay down to black,
a pupil deeper than time,
than genesis or dust.
What angel in his arabesque breastplate
can my consonant-heavy,
English words duly invoke?
I’ll praise whichever silver star
it is who’ll pierce the carapace of
my articulated, squirming soul.
I invite the Clovis point
of high Orion’s bow and arrow.
Let wonder connect the crystals
and the man of black organic soil
who has slept millennia
beneath labyrinthine Knossos
melt away in the pine-laced rain.
As the stone of dead stars
and the corroded clay of decaying life
slips away into the crevices of the saline sea,
and settles, sleepily, in the basin of heaven’s mirror,
let me look upon the natural angel held responsible
for this liberation–
for this liberation from misunderstanding–
for this promise of dissolution.
Let me thank him.
If Alps and Andes wash away,
and the ape is such a little thing…
Although the poet has been liberated from misunderstanding, the reader is still faced with the mystery.