I have dispelled all figments of
Truth in departure. When the silver bright rain of night
Imbues my garden with babbling glass
When stars fall into revolving buds
Bringing a crisp chill; when I know stars
Merely derive from Man’s pupils: those who on the ground collect light and void
Should in the sky etch light and void. The creation of stars
Originates from gaze: so steady, so precise.
And my inner cavalry broke through the fire of night
The mighty forces stride and stomp, the icy blade of sword
Mirrors the time-honoured Land of Promise: the dark pupil created by the priest
Knows the Promise. For it I’ve been bleeding profusely
Who assigned this bootless transmission
Who sent me to the shadow-layered country, where aquatic creatures travel day after night to arrive
To serve as a new bride far from the one and only? Over there
I will day after day trim the tree root of lightning
In my insulated white porcelain clothing, I’ll forever broodingly but gently
Polish a round shield shaped by a sunken sand dune...
I’ll soullessly play an antique ceramic eyeball to see that reindeer with branched antlers
How it forces its way into His interior totem; to reveal His tenebrous, fragrant
Dire divine grace, how it strives to burn the chandelier between its ears
See how it repeatedly practices self-loss in the corridor thronged with phantoms
And constraint, and shot by an arrow, and death, and departure...
And till the end, at the center of His tendril find my
Echo which has been chilled for ages.