Lanthanum 1.4-5

4

Windy air's a blessing in disguise,
and the limpid winter light through dusty glass
that hovers just above the snow. No mass
at all. Only a masque, a fantasy, weightless

surprise. And this is like the heart-murmur
of melting springs, invisible, under the ice.
Of the lost mariner, the drifter, the twice-
born clown-mime – he of the lost anchor,

whose loss is sure. Down to the ground,
to the bone, to the root, to the base.
Where the mind stalls the weather, the ice
freezes over... where Time comes unwound.

Nothing, afloat. There to stand, and, standing,
understand – with a mumbling blindsight,
inexpressible. As with the light current
passing between loving eyes (unspoken

wheel, slow waltz). In the nature of things,
the unglorified and secret luminosity
of humble things, forgotten. See,
it's omnipresent, so. These cherishings

are silent, deep... these chords in unison.
On the octave, on the perpendicular.
On the mast, on the tree. The pole star,
everywhere (hearth-fire of an unknown sun).

So radiant charity filters through the square
on its irrational diagonal of self-surrender.
Unrecognized, innate and universal jar
of myrrh – or winter's promissory trumpeter.

5

From twin marvelous sea-blue Byzantine eyes, to
a block of dry ice smoking at the corner of 114th
and Vine (near Rome Blvd)... into the teeth
of your hobo's urban myth (his dream lean-to).

Mumble your way in, mutter, because in the end
it's a verbal Heimlich maneuver – you wrestle
with a mirror-angel, bursting – aglow with echolalia-
muscle, with imitative fallacies (pathetic, Hen) –

bent glasses, glossaries – with Vap-O-Rub
straight from the Crusher to you, Vern Gagne!
Through this veil of sorry flesh, ancien ami,
semblable, frère
little tugboat, bathtub

toy – my yodeling Argo, oak among chestnuts...
so zephyrs the flute of your spiritual compeer.
Your complement. Imaginary sister-
dove, soeur-mère (not so imaginary). Stu-

stutters to life. Somewhere. And the oval
mandorla brims to its (heeling, keening)
circumference, wind wailing
through the stays – the swell

swells –
*
*
*

– somehow the mast remains somewhat vertical
in the heavy blast, through the brutal waves
and one acute angle of sunlight saves
us all from peculiar disaster (perpendicular) –

1.3.09