Two from (the one you called) Zelda

Wisdom Literature for Another Ad-Man (1976)

Among the mysteries of fusion
and confusion is your
translation of a hymn to fear into
a rote of rollercoasters, alphas
and omegas in your
olympiad, forum and agon.

To be alive within your life
has been impossible. To be
alive behind your life has not been
easy. To remember. Or forget.
It's the big WorldSeries
Written and Directed by and Starring

Dionysos Bound
(jigsaw reality with cameo appearances
by several misbegotten angels
and erinthistimearound).
Now the point is, we both know
that your plot

is just a subplot; that this ancient Circus
round with metaphysicals
is the longest-running show in history;
that the truth is just an old fragility
and that our roles are, very strictly speaking
im-material.

Only the BigWords change
and they change slowly. We live
where they are and we live through them;
we in-tend them. In that music
of wire mappings are the legends of the real.
They mirror in the cyclic cinema of

happenings in white space:
plottings that bear upon us more immediately
than our lives. In that place
pure beyond dimension, we learn
understanding terror glory pain and pity
art bloodstruggle (even) love:

the Word, the dread perfected elemental.
Inscribed upon that sacred calendar or
dance card, read forever: Save me this waltz.


Untitled (1990)

We've had long reigns
as carnival royals:
crowd-pleasers
traffic-stoppers
year after year
overtopping ourselves.

Lord and Lady of All Celebration
circling the world
while smiling above it
we held courts
enraptured
growing deft with the scepter

rococo with favors
at home in our crowns.
In processional pomp
and our chambers sub rosa
we've been feted with plaudits
pleadings and envy

- more than rarely
scarcely less than love
so it's been easy to believe
somebody had to do it.
Maybe someone does.
This is wonder far richer:

that two florid streetbarges, impossibly large
turned away from the drumbeats and din;
that with unconfettied eyes we arrived at
each other; that our masks came off
without taking our skins;
and that we descended

- finding courage to beg
Throw me something
and the will to open our hands.
Plumes have feathered to
pillows, and glitter to
genuine starlight

here:
at the end
of the parade.


For M.A.T.
Copyright 1976, 1990, 2011 Katherine Anne Harris

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