Before midsummer density opaques with shade the checker- tables underneath, in daylight unleafing lindens burn green-gold a day or two, no more, with intimations of an essence I saw once, in what had been the pleasure- garden of the popes at Avignon, dishevel into half (or possibly three- quarters of) a million hanging, intricately tactile, blond bell-pulls of bloom, the in-mid-air resort of honeybees' hirsute cotillion teasing by the milligram out of those necklaced nectaries, aromas so intensely subtle, strollers passing under looked up confused, as though they'd just heard voices, or inhaled the ghost of derelict splendor and/or of seraphs shaken into pollen dust no transubstantiating pope or antipope could sift or quite precisely ponder. |
© 1987 Amy Clampitt