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ST.
SAVOIA’S VISION
At
the corner of the balcony
were
she stood,
a
set of pale blue wings
budding
on her shoulders,
a
delegation of parrots came,
yellow
green and red flags fluttering,
just
as it used to be done
at
the head of the army,
and
commenced a discussion
of
tropical fruit.
She
recited the hagiology
of
dead souls
from
the royal archives
of
Bohemia,
saluted
the sun as it rose
in
a grove of trees,
bowed
to a pyramid
on
the horizon,
and
brushed away
a
wisp of hair
electrified
by the morning breeze.
Voices
tied in knots of color
picked
their way through
her
immediate visions;
all
the roads across the front
were
bathed in whitish light.
She
summoned the soothing tumult
of
a waterfall
hidden
behind a veil
of
discarded robes,
and
with a silent signal
opened
a field of flowers.
The
little blue wings grew longer,
lighter,
more colorful,
as
buoyant as wishes,
finer
than the universe of leaves,
more
perfect than Chaos,
the
very stuff of well-designed nebulas.
But
before she could vanish
from
this earthly silliness,
before
the parrots could leave
for
lunch,
one
curtain parted
and
another fell,
a
bell rang in the wilderness,
and
a siren sounded
that
made the world stop
just
long enough to forget.
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