There are crevices in the Western Wall, treasures
in the human heart, twisted messages on paper tongues.
They say nothing special; But speak. Parables tumble from the machine.
Ancient coins in the Nickelodeon: Tetradrachms of Alexander,
golden solidi from the Byzantine. If there is to be song,
let the singers be coloratura; if dance, the Bolshoi.
Whatever: Let there be bravado!
A sublimate of days and of evenings: the scent of dill and the scent of basil.
Curry in a Thai market; The long slow muddy flow
of the Amazon River to the Sea. Push. Push on through.
We are like mannequins; She
is a starlet; like a preamble
and the body of the Great American Novel
Lining the hallway these pictures are our reference points:
Subtle ruminative fleshings of the imaginable,
A traipse across the Khyber Pass.
An occasional camel. Very exotic.
Mountains like broad smiles in the distance.
Now at the top there is everywhere to turn
to go to wonder at. Perhaps the sun
is about to set. Or rise again, O so silently,
as it did at the Taj Mahal,
lighting with cursive intricacy its marble entablature. Oh, yes!
Hold her up to the gods: like a candle a sparkler:
Shadows, but brightness; a camera
obscura of future expectations. Thus, according
to Aristotle, an actualization of potential.
The air thins gradually as one climbs. On the heights
of Mattsu Picchu one must breathe deeply
to experience it.