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The Ascension of St. Gertrude of Baltimore


1.

Half objects are alive. Art enlarges
the Western eye, arm reappears as
an extension of his desires. Caucasian
incised edges shrivel as the body

makes the plane of eye visible, definite,
along the thread of green that marks
the riverbank. Losing its beard,
the inner world, the outer

spins from nude to nude, making
the dangers of nature seem all too evident.
Myopic sulks, some fertile stamping
ground, flawed but not unastonishing.


2.

 From a moving up toward sunlight, he comes
upon assertions that many might single out
for further clarification. Dour mosaics
have survived in a thousand forms of culture.

At the apex of his own ducal authority,
the placement of a leg is widely parodied.
Comic realities full of charm and surprise
come to us with very little in the way

of bad press. A woman is the problem
that the oppressive robes seem to address,
hallmarks of a cold hierarchical mind.
Rarely documented were his private letters.


3.

I will argue that the implacable memory
vaulting towards the heavenly lens
of age brings us nothing but misery
unless the borders of the body

be well guarded and observed. Three,
two, one. And what then?
Electrified by her beauty, I wandered
through a sentimental landscape

stopping only to inquire after lost relations,
their athletic vigor that was told to me.
Self-impairment is what took poor
Shelley down. Was that ever a secret?


4.

Soft and flowing were her ways and words,
her androgyne friends. The white fez
marked her out in public, at night spots
along the river, or down at the harbor.

Baltimore gives and Baltimore takes away.
He even said that he wanted to grow
old, no longer in the cloistered
university, but out of town, out in the boonies.

A face reddens with sexual flush. I met you
and you had the more extraordinary
influence over me. Apollo only comes out
by daylight, the heart irately read.



[after, and out of, Camille Paglia’s *Sexual Personae*]



Hal

Halvard Johnson
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