Madonnas are everlastingly mothers in ecstacy.
Their alcove arms
retire the Felicity of their conception
from eld and the disorderliness
of peril,
reproving harm.
Madonnas are æon-moments of motherhood
—a moment is Time surrounded by itself—
in perpetuation of the beatitude,
their attitude
of smiling havens,
of sacred shelves.
Omitted omen of Calvary!
Uncarved Crucifixion!
Madonnas are islands in memory
for earthly mothers, who having begotten,
in early security, heroes of the skies,
on forsaken knees
crave for a moment it be forgotten
that skies once ovational
with celestial oboes
for the Heavenly Celebrities
are skies in clamour
of deathly celerities,
the horror
of diving obituaries
under flowers of fire.