Floodgates are wide open. O the calvaries and windmills in the wilderness, the islands and millstones.

Magic flowers buzzed. Hillsides cradled him. Beasts of fabulous elegance made rounds. Clouds gathered on a rising sea, filled by an eternity of hot tears.

III

A bird is in these woods, its song stops you, makes you blush.

And here’s a clock that will not chime.

And here’s a pit that hides a nest of white beasts.

And here’s a cathedral that sinks, and a lake that rises.

And here’s a little carriage abandoned in a thicket, or that rolls beribboned down the road.

And here’s a troupe of little actors in costume, spied on the edge of the woods.

And when you grow hungry, and thirsty, here’s someone to chase you home.

IV

I’m the saint praying on a balcony—like peaceful beasts grazing along the Sea of Palestine.

I’m the scholar in a plain reading chair. Branches and rain beat the library windows.

I’m the pedestrian on the high road through the stunted woods; the sound of floodgates drowns out my footsteps. I stare at the melancholy wash of another golden sunset.

Or I could be the child abandoned on a high seas jetty, a bumpkin along a lane that butts the sky.

The path is harsh. The hillocks are weed. The air is still. How far we are from birds and streams. The end of the world must be just ahead.

V

So rent me a tomb whose cinderblocks peek through their whitewash—deep below ground.

I rest my elbows on the table, the lamp brightly illuminates newspapers and boring books I’m dumb enough to reread.

Far, far above my subterranean sitting room, houses settle and spread, fog gathers. Mud is red or black. Monstrous city, endless night!

Nearer are the sewers. At my flanks, the width of the world. Or perhaps azure abysses, pits of fire. Perhaps moons and comets collide at these depths, seas and stories.

In these bitter hours, I imagine spheres of sapphire and steel. I have mastered silence. So what’s that vent doing, up there, illuminating a corner of my ceiling?

TALE

A Prince was troubled by his habit of acting on only the most obvious impulses. He could imagine a sort of revolutionary love, and suspected his wives capable of more than mere complaisance embellished with blue skies and riches. He wanted truth, hours of complete desire and satisfaction. Whether an aberration of piety or no, he wanted it all the same. At the very least, he was willing to find out.

—All the women who had been with him were put to death. Slaughter in Beauty’s garden. They blessed him beneath the blade. He sought no replacements. —Yet the women reappeared.

He killed all his followers, after hunting or drinking. —None ceased to follow him.

He took pleasure slitting the throats of rare beasts. He torched palaces. He pounced on people and tore them apart. —Yet the crowd, the golden roofs, the beautiful beasts: all remained.

Can one rejoice in destruction, be rejuvenated by cruelty? His people didn’t grumble.