Qoheleth in his bitter book complains against the wind and finds in all that's seen or heard endless weariness. A midnight chapel lit only by stubby candles whose flicker turned the crucified's wounds to shine. No dreams can match the crystal city built of ice, no thoughts can unfurl the flag frozen to the north wind. In the painted distance, the King twirls a sword made of north wind. Each metaphor collapses literally into dissonance while mounted knights hurl javelins against the north wind.
Images spell secrets concealed in light and blood.
The dancer discloses in her right hand a pearl holding the north wind. Only sunlight ever came through the stained glass window where spiderwebs now frost the faded face of Jesus. Where the smashed car lies sideways in the median, blood flows in a rutted foss, mud-veined stigma of Jesus. Caesar's crippled gaze, lost in dismay at the silence of Jesus. This poem can go no further, Gino, until you scrape the moss from your heart and discover, in its center, Jesus.