In this fine light the figurations
rise and die
like Attention and the sense
and sensuous condition of paint
and music God knows Degas
knew the waltz of signs,
the rhythms of cyan,
the chant of the white lead, the Venetian
red of The Rape,
and the horses at Longchamps
with their gorgeous rumps
posing for the painter on the greensward.
And here is my bound speech
constant out of chiaroscuro’s tomb,
enrobed in sulfur orpiment
crossing over
the cock-crow ochre over
paroquet and toucan colors
azure lines of Nazareth
Lover
Beloved
Love Itself
O, Jerusalem!
