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.