A frown and lip curled concentration

framed by scent of pipe smoked thoughts

stacked books to ceiling's edge and farther

knocking knows one has disturbed

giant who never rests his head

but leans to slight agitation

weary with wants and wonder of worlds

Karl commands us to write.

King’s crown has he in secret meeting worn

balanced upon dictionary and dichotomy

that separates mundane from trope 

allusion from proof that greatness

subsists on apricots and allegories.

Were we to know

planets pushed into their rightful course

precepts parabled through patient wait

bluster covers senses that reel beneath

insight hiding tears we’ll never see.

Were we to know

there would have been less fearing the Pope

of Poetry whose heart was our Emmaus,

our confessor's shelter that demands we labor

then humbly sits beside us as mid-wife

while we birth our soul’s voice.