Christ’s suborning esoteric—
  like Spanish moss dripping
  and lichen leaf, rare patination to burnished oak leaves,
  and pastelated flake filigree in cloud forestation—

interrogates exoterics' valor
  that squelch the heart’s unbinding.
Un-facile-making-to-order syntheses,
  fraying robed embassies
until the patron suckle of razor Rome,
  tunneling fo(u)rth, is exposed by its pelt.

Corrupt forms cherished in synesthetic assembly-- pushed,
  ungating to abrade arriving possibles,
in abundance characterized—
  so too of these metaphors—
essentialize all these of “nature” not by romance
   bearing contingent transcendence we salute,
but as a glimpse of swaddling, honored energy by suggestion:

its hinting not to a kabbalah
  or primitivism by the subconscious and mystical—
the escape to ever deeper or farther
  oases subterranean—
but to kaleidoscope revel, wave and nave
  that table with the luminescently over-stretching bid and palm
amidst the flyboy stock and floatline brigands
  quartered, ever destined to contrapasso
  or deriveted by purgatorial dreamworks.

Poetry douses
unentitled culture into metaphysics:
  into careering thermodynamic laws
    and conative resystem—
to point toward what is unstoppable by the vivid;

its genius is to express controlled fury at taxonomy,
  its directing movements of favor by wink’s gestation,
    instead by irony and mashup,
the hegemonic falsities
  ever necromantic,
fragmenting shards of robbery and stone,
  that dam(n) and stifle e(nli)venings,

baptismal flows of birthings grace.

At Goethe’s proper height—
not apices material
but from the reflective, recollecting, past-surveying
  of ontogenetic promontory,
tethered and jibbed to Rorschaching cloud,
the wise stakes to time and space
  that breathe muscle into dancers and children.

--Douglas Blake Olds