Madonnas are everlastingly mothers in ecstasy.
Their alcove arms
retire the Felicity of their conception
from eld and the disorderliness
of peril,
reproving harm.

Madonnas are aeon-moments of motherhood
—a moment is Time surrounded by itself—
in perpetuation of the beatitude,
their attitude
of smiling havens,
of sacred selves.

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 clamor
of deathly celerities, 
the horror
of diving obituaries
under flowers of fire.