Light fell on the cold dome.
Unify the red past
& its tenants, auxiliary
tribulations in the leafless
park.  I declare facelessness.
I declare domelessness,
inverted dome-shape
of the light referring
choice to song, a penance.
Make it this much, penance
which we once knew
well, as distinct from clarity.
I declare the horizon
of the mouth generating
horizon, ancient of days
superimposed beneath
the moire glare.  Lobe
of mercy, attend this abraded
fire that I set.  I declare
the red clay dust that fills
the autoharp beside which
the felt lambs play.  Look,
we have run out of lambs,
all we have left is numbers.
Light fell on the numbers.
You blamed yourself,
softening like a kingdom
of calligraphic knives.
In any other place, in any
other century—the conquest
of diagonals.  Mend & cast
the first stone at the horse
the defeated rode to battle.
It returned in one form.
Light fell on its return.
Light falls on my demand
casting ocher shadows.
Lobe of mercy in the horse’s
wide eyes.  Lanterns
in the avenue of plane trees.
By dome I mean memory
severed from its other half.