Monday, November 10, 2003


Raven is circling
the chandeliers, searching in
their crystals for his
eyes, the shadows of his wings
dancing like black diamonds.

Above the hammock
swaying its pendulum of
Orinoco dreams,
Raven imitates a flute
piping in counterpoint to

the cathedral bells
groaning the hour: five o'clock
in the afternoon,
time to light the chandeliers,
not for nothing called spiders

in Spanish, holding
in their interstices the
webs of fugitive,
but very real spiders
spinning in Raven's dark light.

Raven's is manic
light, creation reflected
over and over
in peeling mirrors whose scales
silver off and disappear

as the light withdraws
into his vital organs.
He is Minotaur
crouching in his labyrinth,
Theseus tracking himself

down, Ariadne's
string dribbling from his own beak.
And still he is lost,
unable to break out of
the egg of unconsciousness,

spread his wings and speak
in rational language.
The bells shout again,
marking another hour in
Raven's crystal conundrum.

Ciudad Bolivar

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