eikon

[joel]

Till dark
(like cold iconoclastic night)
erases inward focus
and the edge far off at which all disappears—

I’m but perspective
of a foreign vantage point
(or worse:
perspective of my own)

and fall from human worth
to icon’s honored plane—
ideal and righteous;
flat; divorced from full.

But still I’m no iconoclast.
The lull of dark and negative
is yet Retain:
an image shrouded still exists at all—

I am the saint:
responsible,
anointed,
called to live fore gold-leaf light.

And what dimension
lifts to life’s full shape:
to dredge such faith seems valued
icon’s foremost right.