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Cruciform poles recede into the distance
excoriating the sky with tuneless wires
whose parallels intersect at Golgotha
or Golgonooza, infinite or inane;
someone reins in her white geese from my gander
and green shoots brave the alley of gabled brick
where night has slain the chameleon-tinctured sun
who daily grows like what he feeds upon.
Time was once that chameleon
and we were slain in the valley of Megiddo
then swiftly rose like love on a green meadow
where small birds hovered on impromptu wings
or else resumed their pleasant parleyings
while every stone shone like a thousand suns.