An Ancient Place
Quaint town, orange sky and spitting roosters,
a trail of mosaic remembrances translates
into lavender hints of folks’ spiraled notes:
women balancing baskets of corn
strewn on the hips, a siege of fluted weeds
meshing with tropical winds along the lake...
being there, just there among ruined cathedrals
and flared umbrellas I cannot touch: I think
there is never an after… for cruising along
roads leading to papaya huts,
the numbered days wrap my flesh with a
repertoire of flora, sitting upon the magic of rapture;
amiably watching a madrigal of a fiesta…
the carriage of lifted chants rippling
on anointed elements of earth and fire.
Those blessed statues, these I cannot caress,
not even the letters in the museum
which tamed stars of centuries’ quest:
it can be cold just watching without holding.
My eyes swallow the moon
beautiful with some kind of soulful whiteness;
my own river of reverie tipsy. Misty.
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