Resurrection of Time Now Dead By a Poet Going Blind, 11

RESURRECTION OF TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET GOING BLIND, 11.

La principessa, your purple-painted finger
On the old bronze handle that opens
The opaque doors of old shelves
For a view of a grayed silver platter
Embossed with a pattern
Of savoy cabbage leaves
That once held precisely peeled
and parsed apples
Was a revelation of history, the change
From feudalism and its castles to capitalism.
Espaliered coats no longer hang
On the backs of gold silk cushioned,
brocaded chairs.
Your blonde hair was bungled
And undermined by the flexed muscles of wind.
Soon, after the intrusion, you will go
To be alone in a room embellished
with elegant skulls.

Duane Locke

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