The day to be the sun was the one Michelangelo made a snowman on
as the icicle’s hourglass ran out
from each branch of each tree on the grounds of the castle de Medici,
all day long the day falling
somewhere along a spectrum running
from cycle to continuum
—circle slipping into loop, loop
losing grip on curve, loosening the grasp, curve lapsing
into line, line going off on tangent
marked at points now and never by sparkling,
coordinates glacial and palatial,
shape and phase, monument and monument to the demise
thereof, from moment to moment losing momentum
—sun-motes sticking to vision like burrs.
Memo to self: become someone soon. A downpour
has left this view drying in its wake, view like a film on the surface of surrounding,
a beaded layer over it that is it—
the midst of a vineyard via a trail
as one by one the grapes drip from their leafy faucets,
the taps leak splashing green and black,
and one by one the grapes light up like rafter-strung bulbs,
or room after room as the sun sets,
and one by one the grapes come out and shine like pulp from a star.
Was it sweet of you to come?
If you were dead, the sky would hang
like a jade burial shroud sewn with gold threads,
but it’s hung like a shade rolled up to let in breezes of light.
So let’s vow, marry, wed. This view is a window
of time in which to act for act’s sake,
we who are drawn here together like drapery,
folds in woven duration,
folds in dusk’s bolt, drawn here
following the sun like two exclamation points in a row.
How the emphasis would taper off were you to go.
The day to be time passing
would be the one some unsung Impressionist whiled
away tracing the shape of a cloud on,
but in lieu of your death or dying
time less ceases to exist than it exists to cease,
and when the young Ludwig Miës van der Rohe was out building sandcastles,
those were the days to be the surf—
getting your rivulets all tangled up in seaweed
to wriggle out of the sea’s bruising squeezes, mottling your gilded strands and tassels to be the moat’s fulfillment and ruin,
and they’d have been the days to sneak onto wine turf and throttle yourself
with a vine, knot the noose with the grapes twinkling
like dots of pure green exclamation point all around you,
dangling a modifier with this ring before them—
These are the grapes that make sciacchetra
slant-rhyme with rocketry. It tastes like juice wrung from a star.
It sparkles like the coercion of space into spaces,
like the visible on the wane that the clear may wax.
Somewhere between the pivotal act of your life or living
and its riveting consequences, along the way
ad astra per aspera,
there must have been a night to be the rain,
a means of siphoning the energy of Sisyphus
off from the myth of inertia
as it snowballed from rock fact
to refuel belief in impetus. A way to confirm.
But the day to be a scorcher has to coincide
with the wedding on the palace lawn
in a pavilion lined with ice sculptures of the pantheon
and must subside in thunderstorm
with the gods of wine making pools
of themselves, fools for self-reflection as they melt down
into figures entering the centrifuge—
as what, rotating, separates—
Let’s pledge our devotion to perpetual motion,
let’s be the betrothed becoming otherwise,
composing toasts and going into shock—