After Rossetti's 'Beata Beatrix'
The halo of a Sundial—does the gnomon
know the red dove? Somehow time is blessed
with words and names, or names may turn in time
to things revealed. The light that paints the world
is like the spirit that is painting language
from her lips. Her beautiful and soft hair
glows golden, she has been my guide through hell
when no poet can do. I thought I desired
death and disorientation in her, I thought
she would end me. The sudden transformation
in reds and yellows, the litheness of her neck
and how she led to clarity. Beatrice
dissolved in the ideal, I wandered paradise
symbolized by a transfigured memory.
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