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.