Gloria: A Right Turn at Ginunga Gap

–a synaxarion (sic transit gloria mundi)

 

Desert Driving

 

Today, they travelled the sun-baked highways

Determined to find the colour of Fall.

Her lilacious lips, once red, parted to say

Some small thing . . . or nothing . . . nothing at all.

As breath came quiet and unnatural,

Her body arced with the coming rays,

 

And her eyes, once white, once firmament blue,

Now rolled to view the hidden recesses

Of her myopic mind.  “There’s no oasis

Outside the self,” she defiled her lips

to form a frown, and promptly slipped down

Into the wooden memories of:

                                                  cowslips

Dressing and caressinga pennsylvanian

Vale;  Catkins of an old weeping willow

Seen through the bars of a paneless window;

The butterfly blush of dandelions

Delightfully pressing the Mimosa

Into the op a line spheres of Plato.

 

Hush hush little baby, don’t say a word

Within her mind she fashioned the white bird–

The Dove of Eternal Peace–and she slept.

While passing the naked salt flats, he wept

For the absence of things, and songs unheard

In his own head.  He forcefully stepped

 

On the pedal and transformed bare Autumn

To an equally barren Winter.  From

Edge to distant edge of this desert land

His eyes burned from the blinding sheets of sand;

The alkaline crystals (vision’s opium)

Fusedwiththedippingsun–

                                          delerium

Outside the self:

                            The ancient waba yo

Appeared in the rearview mirror–searing,

Yet unsinged, breathing words without speaking,

Laughing, crying, laughing at empty shows

And showings of empty shoes–which Gloria

Slept peacefully through.  And he, fitfully

                                                                 viewed.

She poured herself; a fine glass of Bordeaux,

Which set on the imaginary shelf,

Dropped untasted to her spotless self

Staining her former lap of luxury.

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