IN HIS HAIR MIST DROOPS, HEALER'S-FATIGUED Poem by Marc Kregting

In his hair mist droops, healer's-fatigued.
Quicksilver mollifies treetops; he combs
shadows lightly. The palings round his collar
fumble handkerchiefs. Father provincial,
a professional, collects lost spectacles.
Raised a lamb from the stump. Fever is
more than ripe. Located the halfway house
in his plaster-wound, throws a witty glance.
Behind his eye a satyr lush with folios.
He fingerdrums at beck and call. Sweetmeats
in golden bowls. Then weighs up his pupil,
turns and takes fright. Sutures a riddle.
Incense trails from the side aisle. Dark around
the temples. A toneless dissonant hums
about knowledge. Something is announced.
On his horn sight muddles towards concern
and a narrowness he considers substantial.