The Song

Out of the tune's cruddy currency some strange and rune-like

credit inkles

Of archaic mint: sources Hebrew or Moor whose rumor behind

the arras

Of noise beggars the contemporary tantrum which to its agile

Mellowness holds scant candle are from the air

fantastically eked

and astonishment

In their faces betrays they suspect that into the burden some

antique

Strain the nervous flourish of their gestures can't dispel has come

Some germ

Or seed of clarity the song conceals from them and from me

successfully until

as if a band

of fetishists disguised as elk

Circling a gazelle they are about to garrotte ritually fell dead

On the spot and with insouciant leaps the gazelle sped away over

their corpses, the witch-

like heat of this instant flicks the frozen skin

of the music

and some elementary and abstract

particle freed from the gell becomes a wave that floods

your head, you swim interestedly

in an intelligent liquid that flows on ahead

of you like a stream of quicksilver in which the enormous

baggage

Of comparison drops away arears of a lone ray that goes on and

is yourself