The Book of Kells
By Daniel Janeiro
In Dublin, kept from dust,
The Book of Kells rests vaulted under glass,
A musty coloring book to the endless mass
Who, lost
In labored labrynths,
Follow the dreamt-of color-tainted quill
That prinks the vellum carefully until
The tints
Make out of cramped details
Gargoyle angels in a knotted form,
Or gorgon-headed dogs, chasing a storm
Of tails,
Bridging by symmetries,
Like some leafed, holy, clover overpass,
An image prophesying bright stained glass
To these
Words, recalling how
The world's own stains are bound by the bizarre
Entanglements of time to the strange here
And now.
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