My Uncle

I think of forests palaces and swans 
and Chinese painted scrolls and figured silk, 
breakfasts of wine-and-tapioca soup, 

of limericks and psalms, jade rings and beer, 
of mad King Ludwig on his porcelain eggs, 
a baroque cardinal or the knave of clubs. 

An elder. So much younger when he died 
than I am now. Blood bursting in the head. 
Florence, which he loved best, who holds him now. 

Once slim, they tell me, so poetical. 
I knew a leisured height, a handsome head, 
bold nose, a ripe mouth, and fastidious hands. 

He would amuse spoiled children. Catholic 
spellbound childlike in ceremony. What 
hard faith stuck underneath, this puzzles me. 

His mind as a cathedral arched and domed. 
Musing imagination flew such form 
as could not think to lose all opulence. 

Rococo is the word. A glory grew 
exotic to its circumstance, so loved, 
smiled on, encouraged, and misunderstood. 

Dreamy my uncle drifts on pinkish clouds. 
His heaven or my hope, how shall I know? 
His cherubs would sing well. I hope they do.