Jenny Jo Wennlund

The Weaving Room
     for Philip Lamantia


I am following him to the weaving room
To a rock by the shallow falls
To ravines of golden arson
To petals rotted in a glass of wine
To globes balanced upon hour glasses
To hands fingering Andromeda’s locket
And to that north island next a turning castle
Of poet’s voices weaving from the moon.

When the light dawns he will sit in a chair
Covered with swan’s blood
And shrouded in pelts of forsaken dust.

But I am coming to the room
And he will be there in sonorous dark
In a darkness of fiery rapture
Fiery like a river of my mind
Emptying its vein into the woven sea.

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