Conception

Conception

Come, we are going down, not into the old Hell of the philosophers, but into a world
Of light made parts: see how a transept figure dashes
Into its four problems, and how each quark reveals itself as bridge that arcs the septum,
Dividing, enclosing, illustrating. Each is something I have taken
From myself and with which I replace myself: the world of glistening numbers
That sparkle on the tree, bright as pairs (the transverse order of the cardinals
Proceeds, who minister the New Word, and implore its sides from every angle). Peers:
And one for the infinitive, unmarked by speculations, one for the indicative
(There, see how it points, see the curve of the skin that hangs upon its mark
In loose flaps -- Aristotle’s finger) and one -- that brilliant, sweeping,
Yet always relegated to the world of possibilities, unfolds like a tree
Of generation since its dawning point that shudders on the edge of the horizon,
Scene that sees itself -- subjunctive. This is the splendid universe of song,
This is Nietzsche’s woman, serene bust of Athena, dream of Helen. Is there higher
Vision in this vision, a vision that verily sees, something for which this existence
Merely stands? I only know, my brothers, we are erecting a great city,
We will penetrate the sky: and the clouds, our clouds, drifting always
Into new configurations of water and earth, into new storms and new crops,
Are pregnant with the possibility.