Anatolian Dreams

“Go and catch a falling star.”
(John Donne)
St Barbara, a poor white gloved icy ingénue,
Has long been a dusty piece of Black Forest wood
That grew out of the ashes of Sibylline books
The black stone is gone from the Palatine
Only infinitesimal phantasmagoria of the sea
Dwells deep within the grave mound of the soul
While carrying a torch clothed with the sun
Nikola Tesla still feeds a pigeon every day —
It’s an aperiodic dolphin atavism
Awakened by an unknown lyre
It drinks virtue from a moon beam
Only Saturn, the awakener of lavender hope,
Silently watches the humble pigeon
From the depths of our star fed earth