I want this image to dig a grave answer to his strength. His throne will be a mountain, call it love, and in his robes, a man with grit and blood like any other man. I see him resolute with his eyes as though cause had found them objects, to be held like a sword, looking for long without seeing, like stone held opaque for a vision within, and too much like a dream. Dreams come true and somewhere the sky has lost its burning yellow with the sword’s hard blade making the air a jewel. The hand from a cloud holding the sword is his. It’s his hand as from a cloud that holds the sword like a cross. Don’t talk of will or questions. When he falls, the mountains will die. Enthroned, there are birds in the sky that he can’t see.
February 1972