Optical Nerve

Some photos say more than poems can.  & vice versa.

Whose ocarina?  Who is the "hand-behind-the-arras artist"?  Who's at home in Shakespeare's Head today (aside from Nabokov)?  Anyone remember the Blind King (on Federal Hill)?

The way up-down is the way down-up.

from Shakespeare's Head


There's life in the clay, moving like wind, 
back and forth, an epic of beginnings. 
Through the flute lip mouth, uncurling 
that turtleshell of an ocarina, found

almost crushed in snow and puddingstone. 
New England Providence.  My Providence. 
And there's confusion and there's nonsense 
in the hamlet geometry of Shakespeare's son:

the hand-behind-the-arras artist 
feathered like raven, or robin gone blind, 
double-feathered, double-colored, crowned, 
a Venetian Blind King, coursing west.

On the optical nerve a wooden stage is set. 
The leaves whisper, clay ruffles,
wind sings, filters and rifles (while
I gulp down a measure of diminished fifth).

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