Untitled: RK III
We say he went to heaven
or heaven happened to him
right here, like Foucauld
in Africa, blood over white
sometimes the comedy
comes first, Marx’s
patterned lute that sang
the looms of Lombardy
all work and no stained glass
the gods exist to take
this pain away, gold filigreed
their skins of lapis blue
Marx’s lute in Mao’s fingers
no one understands
power is the choosing not to tell
or not to kill
I am in the sky, it said,
winged, of either sex
as your body may have need
my six wings all hovering
they cover us both
the wrap, finale, apocalypse
of all our skin
unwrapping mystery
to spill this ordinary thing.
Robert Kelly
Posted over on Charlotte Mandell
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