Sunshine passing through a golden bee's eye.
Some hexagonal Byzantine honeycomb home.
Or simple winter light through hippodrome-
shaped snowflake – it glows like the sky
through that cyclopean octagonal rose
in Paris. And you're alone like a snowdrop
Solomon's seal – trembling like a bellhop
under the gauze of Caesar's dog-day gaze.
Tout le monde (in one almond eye) await
the Merovingian return. Those golden bees
out of their sacred cryptogram... a frieze
of martyrs still betrays – obscures your fate.
Lost kings for a lost people. In Siberia
snow congeals into a solid plate of glass.
Between the Twin Cities, a blurry walkway
bridges the Mississippi – Berryman's era
ended here. Specific gravity compels each fall;
the spinning vortex of his vertigo
a rude awakening for old Hobo,
who put his shadow up against a limestone
wall. This sickly-yellow cavern-light
that ricochets up from the riverbank –
it's omnipresent, everywhere. In the wink
of a pigeon's eye, in the slate-gray flight
of ubiquitous bourgeois cobblestone flocks...
and somewhere a frostbitten musician fans
a palm across a six-stringed lyre. Begins
to strum. Ice thunders in the river-locks.