In the Valley of the Blue Swans

In the valley of the blue swans
— Subsiding into the water,
Residing in the waves of the water,
Turning their white necks tinged
With the reflection of the blue, these swans
Envisioned as impossible twilight, passing
Like floating ghosts, drifting across the currents
Like fumes — blue only in sentiment, blue
By description, blue as the stain of vision
Is heard — in the valley of the blue swans,

The woman with white fingers wraps garlands
Around the trees and whispers — proof
That language is music, proof
That signifier never contains the signified, proof
That the figure drawn on paper remains
That particular figure on that particular paper,
That the lights and the sounds and the tinkling of bells
Infuse our language with difference —
Magic formulas, spells, to the leaves.

The swans hear and bend parabolas
In acquiescence to the undercurrent
Of the bubbling falls, all in time,
This gesture of a serene and passing music
Like the wind that vibrates in the elms.