  I If I insist that violets Are intellectual eyes Dotting with a wave of sight The chained recalcitrance of earth, Philosophers and scientists— Blind boys who bolt themselves within a room— Will seek to torture me For the flashing witchcraft That rides on thunderclaps Called imagination. The crystallized escape Of fear is known as logic, And men have used it to light Small spaces in the wilderness of black. But I prefer to mount Huge horses of the wind, Whose fantastic laughter Separates to metaphors And similes that hurl their decorations Against the wide malevolence of space. When I return to the morbid Helplessness of earth And shake off the dream of freedom, Men ply their knives of gods And creeds upon my skin. Much traveling through space Has made me immune to pain, And metaphors and similes Aid my counting of blood-drops, Bringing color to mathematics. II Lady upon whose head I weave the motives of this poem, Change your sex to a barely visible Trembling that can match the fluttering charm Of the wreath that I have made for you. When this task is finished We may saunter gayly Past the cunning niches That psychology has made for us. |
|
