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The City of Bulbil





Burgeoning tropical ivy, miniature thicket of lush,

A plantation of several past-seasons,
Serving its day for cardinal and jay,
A spa for the ermine as well as the thief.
A Bazaar, festooning with vermin cocooning,
Masses of masques in the piling, laughing, leafing askew.
On the land’s cape, alcoves in watermelon shades of ivory,
Meander, hidden in, up to the hub of the city
While verdant virgins, At the ends of their lifts,
Lime-minarets meandering, aspiring to account for unraveling,
And leaves in fear of the fall, in hope of support from below,
Climb down the sphere on spiral agendas, and seek roots away from the ramparts,
Only to find the Scythian blade of the hoe.  Far above, at the top of the ball,
In the eye of the orb, an elephantine floral caliph
Who wears caladium-leaf for a crown.  His heart is the holy city of Bulbil,
The sacred shape of his plan, with a temple behind it, the glory,
A spinneret-bud spins a high-flung story. a living spinet of loose strung ivy
Each string in its very own current, finger-leaves plucking the wind for its tale.
Bulbil’s idols, on the roof of the temple, stand guard over man,
What colour we cannot know,  For in the belly of Buddha,
Is the seed hid from the sun for the glow?

Round his belly and up to the altar from an outside stair, we can view them,
The idols, that is: and their priests all bowing low to their pontiff
A yellowish snakeskin battle feeding the winds with mystique,
And suckling life from the heat.  The pontiff, king of the bishop
With the hood of a cobra, his cap, he threatens blue blackbird-thieves,
And tolls the worship of leaves. In a view from my space,
At the window,  It’s all so non-pareil, for the distance.
Simply some leaves and some ivy at the feet.
Rather sane, except for their cranberry showers
To skyward, flowing back on themselves and their stems,
Having watered tourmaline regions and on to their stingray edges
With bends and pink splashes, warm on the peach-skin fuzz of the face.
The whole thing looks rather moot, as the shoots of the banyan
Take root, to support the rite of the vine to hold, up a gargantuan offal of ivy,
With, its center, hidden, divine

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