Triskelion
A rainy day in almost morning
morning in almost winter
winter in a ruined monument raining
upon, stained.

I’m young again she’s making tea
with orange rinds and sweet spices
washing her brushes in the sink
I yawn, breathing triskelion-shaped air.

She wonders have you seen her Franz Marc book
I’m sure it will appear like magic.

The oil paintings of Giorgio Morandi on canvas
remind you of winter or rain
somebody tearing a hole in paper begins by folding
tears dampen her cheekbone

inanimate centipedes in rust skitter-slide down the cave wall
triskelion-shaped jewelry ceremonially worn adorning collarbones
slides beneath half-shadow on the bumpy ledge

warmed by the deafening sun aiming into, yes
well-aimed, as eagles soar hunting,
the solstice passageway,
beneath watery golden rays

the young man touching thumb to index finger
inhales glorious lungfuls of the older air
unfolding arms and legs within the invisible rays
of a triskelion sun
the carnyx sounded deep in memory

the young man conceptually dimensional
observes cascading swirls
spinning like the arms of a forest

weird-wind. winding along. line-of-sight. exposed pattern.
disassembled. reassembled.
knotted. unknotted. sacred formula. column of fountains.

o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art
o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art
o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art
o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art


A blue horse gallops into the hollow
turning round and round
blue shadow envelops blue shadow
foreshadowing the fate of the animals.
I drink tea with orange rinds and sweet spices
I said the Franz Marc book appeared like magic
but my phone disconnected
the carnyx overwhelming the air.


The young man eating bread
younger than darkness
how darkness might have felt
how quickly one is young, then as now
how quickly one is younger than darkness jauntily
wearing the scarf lightly
forgetting how darkness felt.

Listen to the arrangements of roughly-cut spirals
made of paper or thin mimeograph metal
humming
OM
framing the passageway he lingers beside within

as the young lightly follow a spiral into the spiral heart
pulsing before columns aligned as a proposal
a monument to the deafening triskelion.

The young man wearing a scarf
replaces the ink ribbon in his typewriter
determining pathos comparative to bathos
bathos comparative to pathos
I look up the meaning of both words
peer between sheer curtains
patterned with triskelions falling like snowflakes

outside my window frosted with feathery ships
lightning strikes in a series of strikes
the snowman falls like a banished patriarch turned to salt
or a birchbark canoe floating in white foam
the children of prophecy barely visible in candlelight
continue in silent procession

I taste clove oil on my fingertip – over the telephone we make a plan
the operator interrupts – I look out the window
somebody sitting on top of the telephone pole raises an Iron Age carnyx
animals listen at the edge of the city
twelve angels in a diagonal pattern 4 4 4 fly overhead in a grid
I said to the operator confirmed
she said have they apprehended you-know-who
I said yet to be determined


The paintings of Giorgio Morandi remind you of pathos or bathos
I said you left the water running in the bath
you looked at me like Bathsheba startled
o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art
folding the letter written in shy cursive
the small-time & sly dealer, off to incarceration
said goodbye
cautioning you meeting with me.

The train pulls away from the empty station
embers spark, quieting, burn out on the clay-bed
& carved upon the locomotive’s obsidian gleaming surface
incised triskelions sparkle like stars.

I’m young again she’s making tea
with orange rinds and sweet spices
I said I mean the sink
but my phone disconnected
the carnyx overwhelming the air.



The paintings of Giorgio Morandi remind you of bathos or pathos
I said invisible ink is made visible using heat
you looked at me like Bathsheba covering herself
o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art
folding the letter delivered by courier
the director of the museum of phenomena
summons you
communicating secretly
only you immediately might save the mystery.

The train pulls away from the empty station
embers spark, quieting, burn out on the clay-bed
& carved upon the locomotive’s obsidian gleaming surface
incised triskelions sparkle like stars.

I’m young again she’s making tea
with orange rinds and sweet spices
I said plug in the iron to read the words
but my phone disconnected
the carnyx overwhelming the air.

I determine to read
The Power of the Powerless by Vaclav Havel
supposedly soon
But something sooner may appear:
an almanac of magic numbers within a weathered spine
or a mist above the bog appearing out of nowhere
as if in a thought

or your long-lost triskelion pendent
reminding the telephone operator to
attend night school.

Perhaps The Power of the Powerless is written in the power of iron
an iron sun lost in the bog
or simply an iron moon.

Something occurred ~ this morning as I yawned
listening to the bird ~ egg and nest
serenade curvilinear branches ~ of the triskelion tree
overhanging the ancient ~ enchanted landscape

A dozen points converge instantly
a dozen arrows reach the target
emotions, subjective and objective realities, & art forms converge
without convergence there is no memory.


Here & now we see & feel the flying grid of twelve angels
blissfully wed to bone-like shapes
their nature triskelion-like

washing in the wind ~ sounding the carnyx
washing in the river ~ washing in salt
warning of the psychological dislocation of a society without convergence
verily, verily I warn thee.

The messenger drinking water from the canteen
treasures the distance between buried clay hills
racing the wind he throws down his arms
kneeling to press one ear beside clover blooming
voices darting through viridian-green weeds
ivy-like spiral at the base of round towers
echo inside the curving walls
spinning like the green & brown arms of a forest.
Wind

rising to soften the contours of mounds (blurred)
sustaining the triskelion river-sound (preserved)
dividing above carved log-boats on the river afloat
fishermen cast lightly into the gloaming
the great kerbstone looming
a fountain of clay polishes the worn stone axe
I telephone you.

You are born as promised in the embroidery of magicians

down around the roots of hollow reeds
you divine
dig wet sediment bare-handed

dedicate yourself to ancient law

Down around the roots of hollow reeds
each innocent assigned twelve avenging angels
down around the roots of hollow reeds, the
sediment coughing up stones for shelter .

In the beginning was the word
buried in the manuscript of river-clay
spinning three-sided.

