Trigonometry of Thought on the Athenian Shore

In the emerald light at the end of twilight,

the Sun

screams a green fantasia

of Gargoyles that Guard the Night 

against the day,

and the Hawks arrive like Secret agents

balancing themselves in the wind of Human Imagination,

a convergence of the exquisite artistry of the Uncreated Uncreator,

seven strange birds

balancing themselves in the last thermal of Light,

rising 

in statuesque pause, their wings unfurled in ghostlike 

eloquence, a trapezium of sinew and ligaments of 

thought that race down shaded escarpments where the Wind,

is waiting at Sundown to recreate 

the performance of Aeschylus on the Edge of the Saturnalian Void,

Greek synergy 

transposing the names of the Angels

across the surface of a world yet to arrive,

plutonium clicking in the night when Plato 

stood on the Egyptian shore,

remarking nonsense to nobody, and the Blue Flower 

leapt into the Empty Sky,

the trigonometry of Thought.