Who know what they are not in perpetuity,
Enduring the raging penetration of the holy,
Often used to stop (to describe temporally)
Around the emerald gate fondling cigarettes
And speak—again, translating into sequential idiom—
Of this and that particularity
And for an instant, or with an instant of themselves,
Turn from the object of their continual desire
Like birds, bright-black eyes distracted
By whatever senseless rhythm beats
Through plumed and preening bodies.
You might say selves were born
In these bursts of unfulfillment.
And this is where he nursed it.
His three pairs of wings trembling with need,
He nourished the burgeoning gulf within him,
Not desire, but the freedom to desire
And go on desiring without end or fullness.
The impossible screaming jackal-call,
Encased and amplified
Until he was beyond satiation,
Able to stand at the very altar horns
And not fall face forward
Into the cool forgetfulness
Where all may yet be one and yet be all.
So with a petulant motion
And a sound like the voice of a multitude
He threw down the still-burning coal of tobacco
And unveiled his face toward the throne.
The moment of tense, embodied introspection broke
And fell like a star from heaven.