for M, S, and S

That red deer dancing in circles  
leaping after a red flag
the bandana of its tail
at twilight next to grape fields

as though dialing up the earth
the doe multiplies herself
into a carousel of dancers
hyphenated, holding hands

every few seconds jumping high
a grand jeté in a nursery rhyme
the chandelier in the sky sparkles
until we four cross diagonally 

over rows 44, 43, 9, and 7
and are watched by a pagan
in the vine-covered walls.
That lady quiet in a blue shrine

with beads, plastic flowers
and a battery-operated candle
a spider stitching her cheek
transmitting a lullaby plainsong 

she who briefly protects even us
outsiders at a field cemetery
of four names, village of
wine and oil, oil and bread

the electronics in the sky flicker
on every grave, a photograph
Nova, nova. Veni, veni  
as we proceed latitudinally

in olive trees and rake the land
to the empty monastery
with an open well, straight shot
to the 12^th century, to pitch

darkness, to putting this fair face to
the most (which one) frightening
moments on earth.