the permanent migrations
are waking into sleep
down three deep steps
that lead past a table
whose snow white mouth
holds a coal black continent
in rest here
plumed things no longer riders
symbols that do not breathe
but beam and take the beaming
of others and beam it brighter
to figure the highest completion
furnishing toward
the black gaities
furious windows with frames of fire
and branches through which cold babies
are handed out most graciously
the true radiation
seek not the ogre in eternity
for eternity makes all a dandelion
and who
would not be beautifully mad
who
would not gush with purple hands
each clutching a salamander
warty with striped nipples
what crime exactly do we occupy?
the unhurried tempest?
a bleeding forehead spread over blind towers
at dusk?
a red music?
I know there are deer-like gods
that visit in celestial icons
that show their luminous romognays
through transparent mirliflimst.
and they tell us:
In this single world,
what have the double-hearted
to do?
grunt like an angel
with its nose in the ass of murder
and birth..
