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Monday, March 11, 2013

Invisible Weeds of Puissance and Pulchritude

There are hidden precincts as close as skin
To you, simulposed, one on another―
   Closed cavern on vacant nether.
   Yes…  covert are the fields they’re in.
      You go to a back lot
But don’t see the cave, where, I shit you not,―
I battle my own little Ragnarok,
Scarred by the event as a scald must be,
Missing you in the weeds where you stop to pee.

Where you loft your mindwave against the pale
Yellow edge of the concourse―  the daylight world.
   There your cognition may be purled
   Like a cul-de-sac; but, please, Hail!
      The sacramental pitch―
Tumbleweeded flats, perimeter’d by ditch,
That ants abandoned, squatted on by witch―
All but the mine, the middle of alone,
Where the twilight reigns and the gods turn stone.  

We must, perforce, the ancient rites perform―
The inchoate myth, and the phantasm
   Otherness, just a brief spasm
   From solitude to where we’re borne,
      Into the home life, dear―
A ramble in the empty meadows where
The secret places are from year to year,
The well-swept ground under the temple shell
Where, together, all things may, lonely, dwell.