Makrókheir

A tutor I met from Cappaducia,
Home of hills in white,
With hands as long and godly thin
As a lost Andalucian delight
Within such market throngs,
Clothing of mute go-betweens
And azimuth mosaics
Draped over impossibly
Bulbous urns concealing frogs
Carried on the blue heads
Of astrophysically bright
Prophetesses and their sons,
Absorbeing my attentions
In orbs of their golden horizons.
Relief had carved a mitre,
His hieroglyphics spoke
Through tokens in mouths
For passage to an afterlife,
Though sometimes also of loss
So profound as to stay unspoken;
Or if not unspoken then staccato;
Yet all that remains of his riches
Are in seven broken glass cabinets
Beneath a taxidermied albatross
In a museum, in a long-ago Morocco.

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