A Wan Jesus Levitating on His Cross
“a poet of melancholy and shadows, of a fragile and intensely personal
Catholicism, and of the springtime of love” ~ Edmund White on Paul Verlaine
Petite the pieces and emotions, shades
And tones—the minor mode prevailing—verse
For weaknesses and failings . . . mist pervades,
No, is this writer’s poetry. A hearse
(Made up of melodies so fine they float
Like ghosts which mingle with the landscape in
His heart) transports the lyrics, mild, remote
And carried almost far away to thin
Out even love is now his carriage. We
Can barely hear or sense it as its hooves
Traverse our souls. Sycnope is its key,
Slight immortality at five removes.
And somehow these are all the cognates of
Pale April daybreaks in the time of love.