In a beam of light, dust is ephemeral,
though a congregation
illumines a shadowed place.
The dim hall,
a grey frown,
looms over archipelagic heads
forming sagas and complements,
their stillness louder than sound.
Who dreams of solitude?
No, it is learned disposition;
it is a span of the arm.
Nakedness is confession;
derision prowls in search of her.
Even mothers wound.
Eleanor’s eyes roam sacred rooms,
where histories bend shelves,
and windows wear linens
like young women, fluttering.
They descend past columns,
and pause at pale frescoes:
confessions and reasons.
Like trembling hands,
they touch the gold, the rose,
the indigo.
“Broad sands and deeps
I’ve searched
to find a face that I might know.”
“The Quiet are frightening.
(Let us huddle apart from them.)
We proper never stare;
our iterations ironed.
Armored in abstinence,
we live not according to flesh.
We close our eyes and wash.”
A weary herd tests its way
over steep and stony paths,
drawn to sweet scents
of berylline.
Pennants snap the imperious winds,
as black heels harch
broad lanes
to the epilogue of crows.
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