The Second Real Transition---In Arcadia

the doctor (as a Frenchman) told the little girl in the corner that she would look very pretty with her blonde hair braided (as she took his money and in a smile that was far from herself) "have a nice day" (then stared at the gaudy cars and the men inside of them wishing for a moment
that complaints were aimed towards her and for her where she could remedy some
thing) which was why the doctor understood the little girl better than the man holding her pay
or her mother at home who knew how to braid hair the whole time but told the small
girl that she was pretty enough with her blonde hair in ringlets on her shoulder. but the doctor would forget the shy little girl (who was
friendly because she could not be herself) as soon as the cathedral walls opened for him to slide under where the floor was cool against his unshaven face. some doctor. healing the sick is poetry. raising the dead is religion. and he is a doctor. the Frenchman standing downward of a star holding the streetlamps together hangs by the orthodox doorway for the bishops to glean from each night and
the doctor when he was younger played with the words 'diocese' over and over and over. his father told
him a story once (in the French the doctor has long since forgotten) "in Arcadia
(years ago) a little boy looked about the gold hanging off the trees or the birds made of tangerine colored diamond and said 'if I were to be the same as the men in dark clothing or white collars I too could share of this fine wine. of this bejeweled wood. but my parents willed I follow the God of their families and I shall heed so far be it for me to explain' then the stern circular demanded his expulsion and he hopped a boat to another Arcadia one far north and as lovely as the last only the trees were
real and the birds were
allowed to sing because they were not constructed of diamond"
the doctor could remember those words to the exact sentence point or where father had rattled a long cough. the floor is still cool against his rough face. he is a doctor because father gave him a religion and a calling.
the archdeacon is coughing too and for a moment the doctor can smell fine French cigars over the recycled inner sanctum atmosphere the remnants brought from
Italy the saints who simply wanted
to die are echoing invalid reflected from the windows onto the mahogany pews and the gold leafed bibles. the doctor would help them but at the moment he is feeling like Lazarus before being raised. the dirt crumbling at his fingernails faint dust that forms haloes by his breath exuding off the shoes
of the more wealthy parishioners who do not leave it all out the heavy
doors and every
body here speaks in either Greek or Italian, two languages the doctor cannot understand (along with Russian and ancient Hebrew). That is a priest now a stately fellow in impeccable black the ancient world falling upon his books and the collar he wears
"You must
get up now"
"I do
not understand"
"You have
to leave"
"there is much, much more than raising the dead. much more. and I have not even gotten the first part down cold."
he leaves and the split at the seams of one world or another invisible overhanging morning of the passed on or passed upon the French doctor leaves the cathedral and heat smacks him in the face like an angry cat all points and bristle. he has
left his car
place and the little girl is standing in the parking lot a hat pressed over her eyes with the glue of her mother's words so that she can see over the roadway where the cars are a cobweb of summer lead. the doctor stares
at her and laughs because he is not drunk and it is not raining and the dead have not been raised yet where from the girl's
own song (that has been bouncing over the white
lines like a loyal dog who has not been found for a while
yet claiming "here!"
"here!") she is humming "in Arcadia once. In Arcadia"

oh laugh
doctor there are
hyacinths twisted in the little girl's hair.
you have put them there!
didn't you know?