Synapse fire and shake my mind, a glimpse,
freefall back to the planet, from a point
outside the box, so far above the edge;
hard belly-flop in a tow-away zone,
to a four-way stop where nothing proceeds
but deferring the right of way. Tremors.

Weave a web, fine mesh to snare and account
for the accelerated particle.

An ellipsis, me thinketh, so therefore
I amethyst. They cart Descartes away
in a pied balloon; a partly cloudy,
shroudy day in Turin. Panthers on prowls,

the pilgrimage will not be televised.
Bells toll, believers stomped in steeple chase.
Spires collapse, prayers rise, initiates
eat mutton, served on stale wafers, revel,
pass on the wine, and the cup remains full.
The cloaked celebrant, dismayed, with long gulps,
hemoglobin, hemagoblin, deep thirst,
charges his own cells, iron, eons rich.

The papal bull charges the red cape.
Horns entangle with confused flourish.
One graceful matador, a dancer,
on dry dirt, eros, stands lean, relaxed,
sinew throbbing with the ache, rhythm,
at the center of the stadium,

faintly acknowledges the roar,
the receding hurrah. The bull,
with a quick pivot, inertia,
takes advantage of this vain lapse,
plunges deep, twists, plunges again.
The crowd, first hushed, is delighted.

you say goodbye, while I say halo.

Brahmins dine on Raman,
exhale wisps, catharsis.
Buttery Buddhas want
dietary fiber,
are flatulent and so
relieve themselves in bursts,
smelling like sandalwood.
Mongols slaughter llamas;
they’re skilled in exile.

I Ching, art of war,
some tze. To be or
not to be, that is
the Szechuan.

(A hand breaks through
the top layers,
silky compost,
two fingers,
wrist pronate,
flash a V:
Victory.)

© Chagall, 2013

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