As though all light should pour like water down
A funnel in the mind; a diamond swirl
Hard, and yet liquid, holding colors trapped
For their extinction: and the thing be done
Swiftly as that, the light gone, darkness come
Or not come, there the darkness there of course
Having always been there, having been the mind,
Flaws, faults and tunnels, fields and footsteps, all
Darkness: he sits in his new country, makes
His home, himself, of darkness.
Where are the snow peaks? They stretched their lengths
In picture on the waters, and so sank;
Where is the dawn? Its light grew ripe, and rotted.
The girl, though, broke like a plant through darkness
And hardened in the light, and loudly died….
Such tender beginnings. He himself
(A thought of softness once) once kissed the moth
Its miles through leafy dark; it now returns
Red-pinpoint-eyed to clap the glass like God,
And with furred thunder burn him down to silence.
No reason.
But just, just.
A paper man,
Someone, had done a thing –No no no no
I am the one who bled the roses white
His mouth says: I—I
But those others,
They had come plucking at him where he stood,
Had cried I want— I want
His head is heavy;
It swims down to his arms. And there he feels
The dark wash of his blood toward burning shores
It never reached: another failure. Ashes
Hiss and quench like voices. They were saying-
Listen!
He floats upright.
Through air, or water,
As if through glass solemnities like snowflakes-
Or moths beating
Darkness wanders his face.
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