Edward McGehee
A PAGEANT OUT OF MIDNIGHT
Leonardo's parade was a noble affair, men once said,
Including wine casks, ribald goats and ivied trumpets blowing,
But as he stood upon the balcony to await the festal float
Years of labor faced the taut, pore-golden skin poised
Deftly, yet prepared for the nervous sigh of exactitude;
Across all time similar events have happened
For neither in stones, nor in the string of words
Can the question of life
be
changed, but, but
Will it be noticed in the figleaf's broad simplicity
Or in the caressing sag of a movable tent?
Proven: Stolen-by-night-stones can make
A definite face memorable within the lull of wars,
Between the wave beats along the shores of France;
This
is
not the gargoyle stare watching over Lourdes
For that calls to mind the praised fool's hands;
But in each country, each region, parades and faces have been.
Then why should one, instead of Tintoretto, think of Leonardo?
Memory is a violent affair, as well as a sudden decision,
But legend says the gilded cherubim
Vine-wilted in the midst of their circus-sun-feat.
It's still true that some people are born with sadness
While others acquire it in their late-morning dreams,
But Leonardo and the wandering French king of Thebes
Learned long before the circus mothers' sadness
How wine never removes gilt from the image of a face.
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