A world shadow sunders the aching stone
While soft sweat skins me with fizz,
Dulls me to things which rest in dark hiding,
Woods-wall surge from the under-tree dark
Guiding lights and their nihilist drivers.
I see crisp packets tumble, like fragments of net
Caught in a deep sea current, and traces of flesh
From forgotten fish and dead
Are tumbling with them, waving as the wind waves grass
Concentratedly threshing it out.
The packets brim with bright marks
Crumpled, they spin and the marks
Read like symbolic productions
But the oil-shell is cavernous empty,
With the gusts, with the leaf-swells.
The wind, our material ancestor,
Placidly lends us her quality,
as memories lend them to dreams;
Our father and mother the wind,
Our breathing our sucking the wind
Our egg the wind our embryo
Our trace the wind our husks.
Carved whale bones blow in its kisses,
Clacking congealing the wind
In a storm front shivering rhapsody thing.