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Andromeda 19
for Irene
By Wilson J.
Moses
All tales of her are unreliable
Andromeda, a distant nebula
Beyond all grasp. The knowing classicist
Caresses a breast of cold marble.
Blind Galilei cannot glimpse such spans.
Euclid alone with caliber supreme
Can gaze upon the naked Galaxy
Where knowing transcends sight.
True scientists, those carrion quisling crows,
Flee screeching, at the splendor of a shadow.
I smile with satisfaction for I know
They cannot touch her.
The fustian parrot in his motley jean
Vaunting aloud within the tangled green
But inward wracked with pain to show his plume
Hides from the perilous sky.
The taloned owl, Monarch of the night
For all the terror of his princely flight
And ruin of his planetary fall
He drops on rodents.
The Condor soars to sickening heights
But does not seek to know the swirling stars.
How sad the plummet of his bald career!
His circling gaze is earthward.
And if some flippant Perseus mounts the air
On Achillean tendons wrenched to wings
Flapping aloft with prurient assurance
He holds Gorgon, not Andromeda within his grasp
And the Lord Eagle, rising in his might!
Proud in the rhythm of his thrusting wing
My comfort! My revenge! Ah, my delight!
He comes no closer than I do to Andromeda. |
