–a synaxarion (sic transit gloria mundi)
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:
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)
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
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.