A burden to myself, glimpsing myself into mirrors
with a taste for weeks, biographers, old papers,
I wrench hell's captain from my heart
and lay down sad equivocating clauses.
I drift from place to place, wash down illusions,
talk to the tailors in their nests:
repeatedly, with cold and fatal voice,
they sing and chase enchantments off.
There is a country stretched across the sky
strewn with the rainbow's superstitious carpets
and evening's vegetation:
that way I go - not without some fatigue,
trading grave loam, fresh from the spade
dreaming among these doubtful greens.
I pass through relished documents, through lineages,
dressed like an aborigine and beaten down;
I love the wasted honey of respect,
the dulcet catachism between whose leaves
violets sleep, grow old and fade away,
and brustling brooms looking for help:
in their appearance grief and certitude conjoined.
I ruin the whistling rose, the wracking worry,
I break beloved extremes : and worse than that
await a uniform, immeasurable time -
a taste on the soul's tongue which wears me down.
What a day it's been! What a thick milk light
compact, as if white fingered, favours me!
I heard its red horse neighing
bare-backed, unshod and radiant.
I ride him over churches
gallop through garrisons empty of soldiers
pursued by a raffish army.
His eucalyptus eyes plunder the darkness,
his bell-like body gallops as it strikes.
I need a flash of that persistent brightness,
a feast of kinsmen claiming all i own.
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