Two clouds above the basilica tear apart like ancient pastries,
as cabs splash dark coronas on glistening cobble-walks.

Crowned triumphant, he solved riddles,
told lies, made much of love and daughters.

He has made things with his hands.
He knows how to get along with other boys.
He has experienced parliamentary procedure.

                                    And then a cry
floats to her from out of the night somewhere,
rising cold in the glassed-out shining wind

They’re all dead anyway, and it’s a long time
since that neighbor blood was wiped up

There on the street, an angel policeman
Is directing the flashing mosaic of traffic.

How free I’ll be, once I abandon the notion that my deeds
Should make me larger, that I’m kin to a tree

In that cove, water from the font leaps up, its foam
drawing light from some obscurity beyond the trees,

I was astonished to observe I was still standing.

Does one ever sink into a vision?