Back when I was a cricket cricketeering
chirrup cheer-up chirrup! –
I assumed in insectival innocence
an inner sense that there exists an aristocracy
which has no truck with densities of provenance
or centuries of family or fancy balls or noses
held up in disdain, to which the best souls
in the cosmos gladly train their hearts
and heads to pledge allegiance:
an aristocracy of spirit. You know it
when you’re near it. You recognize its members
when you are a member, too: there is no surer
proof of who is in this special realm.
No one’s lording her or his good fortune
over anyone who doesn’t have it; in fact,
quite otherwise: you subtly influence those souls
who never knew that in their deepest being
they belonged: and then, as when
I was a little cricket, suddenly they did.
The aristocracy of spirit blew its lid too long ago
for anyone to have the barest notion
of its genesis. But when the sis-boom-bah of it
resumes its generous hooray, attracting
every soul its way, we lose our thirst for herstory
and history. If we were a church, we’d be
the clerestory: windows looking out onto the sky.
Although thank heavens (if that’s whom to thank)
we’re not a church: that would be a lie.
The aristocracy of spirit likes to undermine
all solemn premises and tends when
in the presence of a vaulted arch to lurch away
and out into the bright and unimpeded day.
Unless it’s cloisonné.
(why we cannot say)
slaver over cloisonné.
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