Bellini’s courageous horns will tell me
about that vaguely arabesque window
on North Market street
–who owns this pattern?
Memory’s dust on it
brood of the heart, it sings
in its nest, its dust
coeur’s hearty sound, the skin from
projects my finest glaze
mapping onto the grid, the vision
of thinly disguised pure color.
This window with its rosy cross,
Jerusalemate as the heart insists
finding in its beloved forms memory’s
memory
just follow what the words want to describe
they all go back to who
the heart sounds
from the other side
like Wagner’s knights
but its Li Puritani instead.
Never for itself, these horns
that woke me, yelling to you
something about seeing a robber
frightened to finally find myself at home.
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