We are not privy to (Although we can see them stacked up around us) lives one stirred to a magnetic life at the opposite pole of being the worlds best bank teller : Horowitzian Control-Alts lefthanded In one smooth gesture, Prestissimo cantabile of course, Native languages Russian, Georgian of course, Azebaijani, and a little Martian. My compliment, that part Of the Georgian psyche indeed Resided on another planet taken kindly, And almost seriously, it was through Blue pleasure zones that we sped Till we reached Nineveh (in transliteration Western Union) yellow and white
Like a less flirtatious, less treacherous,
Beeline: This is where lost funds go. To have needed to have had Your funds lost, then found again Is Biblical enough : and this Angel retrieved them from a blue not black Hole, far beyond the city gates, Where they were in financial meltdown. Two hundred dollars less four cents (452 Laris, some small change, and a sweetly silver useless petite one lari coin emerged) She was Star Treck busomed, my lady, such hidden efficiency masking a deeper fertilityAnubis, maybeor the waters of Siloe: the first Mtkvari, I imagine, or the Nile. And so, noiselessly, the funds came. There was no sigh, and scarce a smile , But a printout (Torn with a ruler neatly down the middle, which is how they manage things here) densely black with Georgian small print, In a font of maybe four. I was reminded Of the Gospel of John : In the beginning was the Word
Was all that came to mind.
Asli copy it was rubriced, Or rather overprinted in black, but the liturgical intent was clear. There is combustion Within the small stars Of our daily unions And our thoughts unheeded Unvisitingly eternity making firm! Note the anguished ecstacy Of the key signature Of this moment, the laris ex machina For which praeternatural bank tellers yearn!