43: Baucis and Philemon, Again

1.

The mild weight of her coarse

hair against the softness of my own - when

we kiss our growth tangles; my rays

at her nose, tickle her eyes; her's at mine like a brush

filling my colors; taming is not

possible. Our star must keep such distance;

rolling in and out with the tide, his burning locks

would take

her face

away. See how

he melts her robe

of clouds. Soft naked turns

of new, crescent, gibbous, full

curves carving time.

2.

He held me

as a child - his inescapable

heat - tan hands - lick of his fingers. I was

the weight of innocence on

his lap. My heart was feathers.

No one

knows how fast

mother left the room; the moon

retreats; his waning nail returns but

the sun

sears in

slow motion, brands

memory. Hungry and burning,

devouring the soft down

of youth. Icarus plunges,

leaves a canyon in his wreck. How

horribly magnificent,

the natural wonder.

3.

I the maker believe

redemption is an offset

of personal kindness. The world

has no forgiveness

until we

put

it

there. A child

asks for

no mistreatment. A cup is

filling when it comes wet

from the wheel; suffering

wants its heavy likeness. Early

overwhelming

volumes collapse and spill its sides before the kiln.

The maker's work is lost, broken,

drowns us. Swimmers seek that rough vessel -

anything within arms

reach, a world to squeeze and shape. Release and go down.

Let the wheel cast the clay. Hands, cut them off.

The flood is

death as cure.

4.

Why does she want my lap, little goose; fear not,

you must guard this house

where we dwell. Your

owners must

seek the mountain - one shaft's distance

from Hermes's bow, and we,

humble guests, must go.

So much bad

has come;

from this place - We will see it washed.

The goose again,

can she not just run to me, let me hold her in my arms.

Give her no chase, my liege, and

for our absent meal

she will guard

a temple where

a cottage has stood.

5.

He became a small

town welder, heated metals, soldered: effusive forms. A child,

born from the same metal, heated gold, copper, stuck

forever

to the lap of another. Tarnished by touch - a sweet arm, black

arched and reaching toward a face staring blankly. Two

arms lost at silvered, ashen wrists into the child's

sides. Molding the form, inside, forever.

The movement is disguised but: hands unseen, continue.

The welder wore a mask. Drowned in that flood.