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Barn Doorway in July

Where may heart cut through the mesh of evil and good?
Weathered doors divide along a rail on dot wheels.
Blurred, the hankering for harvests. No one stands there,
while midway a shaggy sphere of petals, and bees stirring
geranium eternity, weave scent and low sound.
Faint essence quilting the commander-in-chief's guilt
as he treads the red weave to his bath, sealord sacrificer,
and quilting Lulu's shriek, her wrath and frail form
while the hum thrusts melody from her first seed--
this hangs by chain, flows from a tub of garden pinks
dealt through chalky whites: commonest companions
hosting hummingbird now and a star's heat, those
interlacing frequencies wrap-thronged and arrowed.
Contemplation is the wing, sang the Victorine.
Here it whirrs to feed on light its other self.
Ever from two, all the rest. From that, a portal.
And then darkness, musty generations of grass ghosts,
swayed spines of milk's bearers twitching off flies.
Captain, courtesan, those strained essences,
go through.
Why have all other eyes watched them if not for this.
When I thought I had missed destiny, these
gathered and passed, startling pair through inevitable.
No bridge from oblivion in the bad to the good, declareth
the sum, ant's mandible nibbling what the shark dribbled,
yet that couple strode over into forgiveness and vanished.
When it is too much, and when it is never enough, the doors
have been, already, drawn open over this cooling cave.
Across the unblazed trail with the trodden, the frayed with the unfound.
And if that has been so long since, the great wing has brushed us.
Though blank here, I stand in the knowledge. And souls, the bees.

--John Peck


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