1
Four crows in a sylvan grove
when the moment was a boundary
to the lucidity of death
when the orchid field was drunk
with hermetic songs of dawn’s expanse
it was then within the ossuary doorway
three maidens appeared
to drink the frozen libation of fate
where words were archetypal scribings
passing into the tongueless ocean’s corporeal void
where the fragrance of belladonna and wisteria
died on a Paleolithic celestial shore
where the gaping existential bloody net formed
the fog of a morning’s firmamental embrace
where the entangling prosthetic cognitive cleft
awoke within the bended eyelid’s crepuscular shade
speak then here of the many clouded arias of isolation
of the many flowering forsythia blooms
burning on the static mountain’s vernal tapestry
of the many detached faces of loss
cowering in rooms with grey painted sloping eaves
of the many chastened by a glass-eye blindness
following the path darkness traces
through the clotted thistle-wind’s forest edge
88 (for Mary)
Inside this room
there are isolated geometries
there are fossilized imprints
of demurred plainchant echo
there are dreams returning
through a stony hemispheric gauze
inside this room
the eye is singular
and thought is the fluid medium
through which eternity floods
the silty mind’s ephemeral ache
yet speak here of love
love hallowed
by a prismatic sunlight’s unchanging essence
love rooting
through the molecular pendulum’s labyrinthine arc
love dissolving
the furrowed weight of angered faces
tamed by the votive candle’s leaded hinge of sleep
love within
the numberless grains of sand
coursing through the hourglass’s angular veins
love silencing the vacant touch
naked and hungering to fill the yielding heart
with light
Ric Carfagna
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