125

Under the Diamond Pulse

Why should I weep the passing day?,

the night of falling stars?

Why so protest each turning?

With each beginning, a new aim is arrowed toward

lest all new dawns should cease;

even the chromosome bears death twined

in its reduplicating helix.

Like some tall god I walked the gardened earth,

recognizing the stars flung

by my hand heavenward

cupped too in the footed crocus,

knowing my deepest tears

the same dew as dropples the morning leaf;

and above early larksong thickening the air

I’ve heard the multitude of spinning worlds

humming the same song etching my veins, and known

I bade them sound.

At twilight and at dawn—that strangest light

where halves are met and indivisible—

I join my rooted earth

with the undomed reaches of an alien universe

and speak my tall and desperate oneness.

And always then the sundrance. And so I take

the sun into my hair

walking desertward

under a pillar of fire or cloud,

only a man.

And yet, the memory holds, ordering the thread

of each return, weaving the tapestry,

making visible the play

where pattern, rising onto mind,

experiences itself:

Against a brazen wilderness,

an oasis of cool green silk;

and upon it, poised, the golden sphinx,

steady, motionless, gazing at my world

through my own woken eyes;

and above its glittering crown,

inexorable, whorl adamantine stars

in a slow spiral of intricate harmony.

caught on the hollow night.

I hear only the sound of leaves rustling,

of flowing waters,

and the harsh cry of some desert beast.

In my golden eyes he contemplates

his golden image: mirror gazing into mirror,

one mirror,

one image,

one mind shimmering.

Thinking: I know you now.

And my mind’s bowl, the glittering mirror, fills,

rises, stands up as a silver serpent

crowned momently with that other crown.

And where lay background wilderness

shifts, overhovered ghostlike with greening countries,

and the bestial cry, like unheard larksong, silences

under the diamond pulse.

I know you now.

Why should I protest the passing day?

the night of falling stars?