Today quaked into a good age.
Rushes are cut to middle men, sticking
jewels to flight of robe, feeling
velvet lines of succour more than hope.
Beings gaze demurely over edges
while a mother sees us out, soft
hands like limpid answer after doubt;
dubbed unswerving of a custom's cloth
spilling favours even as we lean
to an earlier representation, to largesse
of slight withdrawal from full flesh
finding a field of stillness, through guidebuzz
of weltered elbow and deleted fuss.
Somehow, she's the turning poignancy
deliquescence of iconostatic applaud
and shades of sumptuousness to come
as the sun self-indicates biopic
(wings around the dislocated column)
and a hatched sheen of my becoming
votary, magnificently veiled.