The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd br predilection unheard of by Marco Polo br when he came upon, high in Badakhshan, br that blue stone’s br br br embedded glint of pyrites, like the dance br of light on water, or of angels br (the surface tension of the Absolute) br on nothing, br br br turned, by processes already ancient, br into pigment: ultramarine, brought from br beyond the water it’s the seeming br color of, br br br and of the berries, blooms and pebbles br finickingly garnishing an avian br shrine or bower with the rarest hue br in nature, br br br whatever nature is: the magpie’s eye for br glitter from the clenched fist of br the Mesozoic folding: the creek sands, br the mine shaft, br br br the siftings and burnishings, the ingot, br the pagan artifact: to propagate br the faith, to find the metal, unearth it, br hoard it up, br br br to, by the gilding of basilicas, br transmute it: O magpie, O bowerbird, br O Marco Polo and Coronado, where do br these things, these br br br fabrications, come from—the holy places, br ark and altarpiece, the aureoles, br the seraphim—and underneath it all br the howling?br br Amy Clampittbr br