There is a Limbo: poets
tell
its truth though lack the word
while theologians have concurred
to map it on the rim of Hell.
There are the seeds that
struggle sown
in wombs unfit for birth;
grown to inure a fallow earth
two though veiled to me are known:
Clusters to cunning brain
annexed
and drumming heart; ears hark,
feet start, hands grasp, eyes to hear near dark
unseal, still sealed how named how sexed.
My womb-sprites’ tenor
in their dance
is theme particular:
"All quiddified all selved we are
chromosomatic - how by chance?"
Next may seer see like
cinders lie
the cast on Limbo’s strand
flaming from whom their angels stand
as justicers to each stopped cry.
Those are the silent
births men chose
should gape in vain for breath;
of them unstrung but not by death
undone the rooftops wait disclose.
Those are the hunted
disappeared
whom tuning cell by cell
their organist has tempered well
to voiceless peal that shall be heard:
Salvo to love who ways
unguessed
goes sifting. Heart of hate
already wears its darnel fate;
all’s good grain in the gleaner’s breast.
And poet’s eye it takes
descry,
dislimning Limbo shade,
kindness in form of makeless maid
and face of lady from on high.
Toward Millennium run
the sands;
Love holds his purpose hid
till Azrael’s franchised and Hell chid:
the poet fails, the vision stands.
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