Rubbish of late winter. Unburied contraptions,
rusted wheels. Plunged, askew, sunk deep
in mud. Rasp of iron hinges on a windblown
reaper. Frenetic epileptic conniptions
of a febrile collagiste (things pile up).
A nervous colonial, forever glancing back
over his shoulder – looks for an echoing look
(some sign, some figure). An empty cup
points toward processional waterfalls
of stars – geste of a people, under siege.
Angels circuiting with molten swords, my Liege
History's junk shop – you get lost there, fellas.
Remorseful morning is another story, now.
Tentative sunrise through pastel clouds
mingles a girlish gouache with later moods
– shakes out her hair (a wave-splashed brow)
across dew-lit fields (where mowers mow).
These early adventures sink into a crowd
of happenstance... life slows into mold.
So the gods withdraw (over the rainbow...).
On a plain flat plane, a wooden oval, Cézanne
mixes his oils, contrives an evergreen.
A pear, a mountain, someone's eye. Seen
once, in the heart of things (his master plan).
The crossweave of his clumsy, delicate brush-
stroke makes shadows linger, colors harbor
(clear, deep, warm). Now you are somewhere
in the south of France (don't run, don't rush).
Minneapolis and Providence, Jerusalem
and Petersburg (Byzantium). One russet
blood-mandala glows, endures (Mount Olivet).
She waits by a tomb – hears a plowman hum.