from Heart of Love

There is no home but heaven-let;
there is no water but the brook:
so wherefore poetry forsook
the bank the rangers still forget
for a concrete tenement?

Ghosts uneffaced by memory
still linger in the element,
inelegant for emigrant
unhaunted by the century
before the queues.

No lightning struck from flinty rock
rebellows from these clockwork mews;
phantasm of the horse's shoes
heard not, but in the oval lot.

Come wander in the glade of God
forgotten by pedestrian
where wattle and equestrian
divine an Eden never trod:
she prophesies, it seems.

Drown out the charismatic cries
of mirror's city thumbed by screens
and dumbed to silence, while the queens
of Aurora's procession dyes
the coming light.

The painted fisher on his perch
falls with kaleidoscopic light
e’en as a stained-glass dove in flight,
as furtive as the lonely church
which skirts eternity.

Delicious whispers of the sooth
so nearly dead, reviving me
in concert with Gethsemane;
the second book of God's own truth
revitalized in form.

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