It could be an eel is not a trope
(oh?) but why a chrysanthemum
by the Virgin’s bare feet curved like
our ruined desert horizon, why
embellishment to the sung Mass
so enchanting to the serpent hissing
at Our Lady’s conquest of indifference.
I understand speech and its figurines
devote my accursed contraption:
(right ventricle and left plus
atria aorta, a pulmonary artery).
And if I don’t understand
I feel my frantic grasp of Life
(the beach ball circling Death
who just stands there, right there,
see him, the activities director
focusing the small us, you and me,
on a passage requiring four elements
and choreography and the pleiad).
As you sleep, two quail the shivering
brown of a fawn wait in shadow.
Mary and Serpentes call it a day
just like God did and what follows
is something Shakespeare’d call night
tending a garden one late afternoon.
Look up, up.