from Dreaming at Noon: Cycle; Birds

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Cycle


A sphere did not receive love,
It grew thin and became a circle.

A pyramid did not receive death,
It grew thin, it became a triangle.

A flower did not receive sun-light,
It grew thin, it died.

And when it died, it turned into a sphere,
It became the earth.

And when the earth did not receive love,
It grew thin and became the sky.



Birds


My twin and I had always communicated with the greatest ease. A mere glance was often sufficient to convey the desire for movement, animals, rain. We awoke invariably in the tower of the gods utterly refreshed and without humor; afternoons we spent in the city, holidays in the provinces. To see her float everlastingly toward the horizon, across the vast green surface of the dream, reinforced the simple reason why she was the one for me. It was her radius which first attracted me, all those millennia ago, in Antarctica, where diamonds were plentiful as they are in Africa. The skulls—not of this planet—piled at the entrance to her steel labyrinth were the first sign something was distinctly without precedent. She was more an idea than a body. And I, a mere point in time, in need of understanding and companionship. The train would pass behind the world, concealed, but for its mysterious scream. Each minute it returned from its tour of the islands, dragging behind it a net of fish, lobsters, dolphins which were to be stretched and liquefied under the ground, then administered to her center. My other understood everything about me, despite my deficit. Her wholeness threw into relief my metaphysical incompleteness. She was inevitably perfectly complete, without me. Hence she was imperious, a fixture of reality, a sort of originary fluid through which I animated my feelings in physical form. Birds flew, and it was because they were afraid of her depths.












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