There was a jewel once paragon in you,

no flaw nor cloud, nor ice, dark facet,

but as a beam to the hunger, a house

to the grain; as beacon to shipwright,

the interceding walls of empty cantons

in front of the glittering sea — in that

simple moment, you made a gesture almost

narcissistic, but innocently so, and beautiful

for being so, the barges thronging like colossal

children on the waters, innocently so,

no precognition, no cogitation, no recognition,

and beautiful for being so, and in doing so

raising the standard of peace, an idea

millennia in preparation and meant to simply

start a chain of propositions that leads

to just one human being in tireless deliberation,

who might be petrified awake, or just slip off

into the so-called “stream of consciousness,”

learning how to set all clocks by the water-clock,

a series of water-beads on the marble sphere,

the marble sphere of consciousness, which is

a real sphere, sitting motionless beside the drip

drip drip of the water-clock of consciousness,

which is an actual clock, which is one more example

of the kind of creature that you wish to be,

so young and O, how that glittering taketh me,

toiling away under the stars at being so,

electuaries of herbs, roots, flowers, and seeds

dried in a gentle fire, just distant enough

from those with spleen enough

to carry you off beyond summer, beyond

your short and beautiful time on Earth

that is, on second thought, better than no time at all.