Monday, April 20, 2009

Vita Nuova II

Curled up upon the honeyed crags
As a grouse approaching in the predawn stillness
Bringing purple fruits in alligator luggage,
Turning the shining windmills round and round,
The laughlight of heaven's glance, just so, fellow wanderers,
In May, the volcano-sprouts blossom through the ashes,
And my father, in his pajamas, stands over the earth's book
Turning his blinking eyes to read the puddle which inverts the air:
A god, sunk in ashes, reassembles himself,
A lost ship becomes the sea
Hercules becomes stars and Samson stones
So the grey-spotted land will writhe with ferns,
Will become a purling lake
Become a lake of midday red.

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