The architecture Henry can't explain, that is
his joy & consolation every day (conceptual
October sunshine – pale, passible, yet still
there). Like these deepening plum colors
in the descending dogwood leaves – it is
a shade of general rose; as the various shades
merge in a spectrum of clear water-blades
in that city of lakes where Berryman resuscitates
& is himself again, & feeling better about things.
Or as the magnetic attraction of the dusty iron
sketches its mandorla-door, unstoppably – spun
from sleep toward your own unlooked-for springs.
So the form of flute-sound over the heart-void
entrains itself into a fan of harmonies. A scale-
wheel of diminished fifths – purple organ-peals'
surfacing rhumb-bob of the universe – enjoined
in solo heart-burst (single voice & chordal bass).
& then the hobo-rail peels off... around the bend.
Making tracks. Into that spacious empty land
& sky. Vanishing (infinity unveils its face).
So he pursues her, anonymous, into rose's
spectral folds. Drawn from desire toward
innocent joy – that otherworld of renewed
childhood (private in an unknown soldier's
infancy). Where many & one become
a theme with variations, at the apex
of their milky curve (simple, complex) – &
where the rose is rooted in its flower-kingdom.