Whatever that nameless sage, the mind, utters
in our oldest voices . . . whatever the poem
of mind keeps on saying, weariless, beyond
my death, or any death . . . and is always
saying, sleepless even in sleep, to this
hearer and also to every other one . . .
is wisdom of our kind, mortal—finesse.
The poem of mind is for the one hearer,
but is heard the same by anyone who
may, or may not, say it to another.
It is not many lights. It’s one long duree of
light from noon backward to the hour before
dawn when it’s still too dark to say, “Look!
look, my dear, it’s snowing in the light.”

This beach is strewn with stones. Which is my stone?
There must be something permanently actual—
eternity, or chaos, or night, something
that moves without being moved. God is an
idea, like my sister because I don’t
have a sister—not even a dumb sister.
I don’t have a god either—not even a
dumb god. But there is mind, in every
human being, conscious of thinking and
good at it—aware in a way that exceeds
any wakefulness the prophets know about.
What does mind say? “Menstrual fluids are
set in motion by sperm, as earth by seed. . .”
In any case, nothing I can’t understand.

And there she stands—wisdom—in four inch heels,
posing for her picture. She is the god’s pleasure
which is like ours, at its best, for short moments.
Her body lights the sea-road to Port Sunlight—
glimpse, glimpse, glimpse, glimpse, glimpse.
Behind her, and to her left, is a boy.
He is stooping to pick up a stone. Nothing
about him is right. His necktie is astray. . .
He will wander on—always at night—lost,
lost among the dead also strangely dressed.
“Comrades?” he inquires. And the dead reply
“Comrade!” The messy kid begins the lesson:
“Nothing moves itself. The mover is finesse.
There she is in the picture. I’m her prophet.”

In fact, there are two children and a nurse.
Also, a chauffeur who brought them there,
and the photographer who made the picture
of a woman with linen gloves in hand
and the face of a beautiful boy. She says:
“It’s snowing in the light. The world does not
come from night, or everything being together.”
When the boy asks, “Do you love me?” She answers,
“I do love you. But I have more to say.
It’s snowing in the light—and it heaps up.”
In tears, the boy replies: “The question answered
is never to the question asked!” In the beginning
she was naked and the boy lost his eyes
looking. But they were her eyes after all.

Glimpse, glimpse, glimpse, glimpse, glimpse.
So begins the long romance of instruction.
Snow has fallen all day and it heaps up.
The day brightens. The snow dries in the field.
How will it end now that the end comes on?
The nurse and that other boy in the picture
wander toward the city. The sun is on it . . .
glimpse, glimpse, glimpse, glimpse, glimpse.
The boy has found his stone on the bright beach
strewn with stones. Look! He puts it in his mouth.
Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him! Let the stone pass
from his mouth to your open mouth.
Look again! The divine literatus comes
and the winds of heaven blow the great ship home.