Enthroned, there are birds in the sky that he can’t see. His throne a mountain, call it love, and in his robes, a man like any other, but resolute, with his eyes as though cause had, as though love had found them an object, to be held like a sword, or clouded over, stony sockets bored by absolutes for a vision within begot by subject blood and bitter tears, and too much like a dream. There, dreams are true and the sky is a different color, with the sword’s blade making the air a jewel.
February 1972