Lanthanum 1.9

9

Afternoon through library windows. A view
across gray rooftops, colonial town, highway.
A light-beam pyramid, in majestic array
hovers over Providence (through

gypsy cloud-flocks). The day's epiphany
for the gray librarian, the cautious book-
shepherd, shelf-sailor. On his duty walk
around precincts of Alexandrian harmony.

Lost to himself, lost to the world, reciting
a missing life, absently, amid posthumous
tree-compost. Alone there, and serious
in the sub-sub-labyrinth. Whale-hunting

for Leviathan. The answer to the riddle
of a feline Sphinx. The Big One.
Apex of the pyramid. (Is she a 9?)
He marks a square around the base (idling

fiddler, flute-player). Impenetrable
mystery, irrational number... yet, simple.
It seems the vessel's deep-ribbed, ample
hold offers a short-cut (systole, diastole...)...

What walks on four legs? Why, the baby-king.
Magi make obeisance to prince-principle
of infancy – a whispering-low cymbal,
manger of every symbol – everything

converging on one humble nameless shed,
one unaccountable free radical (your soul).
And it was so. Rippling angles of the whole
sang through dry furrows of the sacred dead.

1.8.09