A Priori

The beautiful is in my mind

before I see the twisted stone,

before the perfect phrase I find

or hear the spinet's slender tone:

anticipate the swift concerto

or tints of luminescent paint,

identify in faded quarto

the secret of a happy: saint.

The beautiful assaults the soul

in a perpetual love and anger

to make it elegantly whole,

objectify the radiant hunger:

as when the kindled fingertips

play supple preludes to desire

the beautiful is in my lips

before her breath, before her fire.