i flew over.jpg

I flew over the round world, round-eyed,
Spying what the raven who first rode westward spied:
Three ravens, who sat, like the ballad, in a tree.
The ballad did not mean a thing to me.
I sang that ballad because my voice was smooth,
Samita! of all things done with the mouth I loved,
I loved to sing, and make vowels and consonants move,
That I might please, simple as daylight sighted
When black in the forest is first removed
As day inside the wood is first lighted
By an ancient, or maybe, modern, sun,
The same one, Mediterranean-whited,
Who blues the wave, now in this mossy wood,
Spilling sun-change on shadow, day-improved,
As each shadow plays upon the day,
Turning around to look at itself, day’s shadow,
Wanting to inhabit music, luxury, and play
In spots between trees, dying into harmony
As song finds that a small misunderstanding pleases.

I find the raven inside every shadow—
The world does not allow absence.
The philosophy was “Everything exists.”
Do you hear my song as it invades the day?
As I watch the stretched earth all day changing,
Hated, not for blindness, but for being near-sighted,
As officials ask for fur, for my impressionism;
Hollow inside, my answer is low and murmuring:
“There is only you, there is no impressionism.”
The light takes time, as time, always away, takes.
The prose is the photograph the sly poem takes,
The prose who lived years ago somewhere else;
The prose is someone else’s. It surrounds my house.
The sun inhabits the fire that inhabits the sun.
The many beautiful prevent us from loving one.


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