Arrow shoots amid the spheres, amid
The roving planets, the narrow curve of the earth.
Clutches of constellations harrow
The globe; in the heavenly arches, the vast
Living hall, the mast of a celestial architecture has
Cast before itself darkness like light; the sea is
In the sky with no Mars, no Venus.
Why do the black dots, impelled from the mountain trails,
Proffer their bright halo, their shy
Sigh, scoring the crushed earth like tumbling
Stones, white as the rumbling spring of white
Fumbling creeks, sprung rime of Antarctica?
This corncake, hanging heavy on a stalk,
This, the face of genesis, containing every face,
Had it come from within or above the abyss?
Out of this way station from nothing, a
Creation of the only-but-all sheathe of the corn,
The shadowed stones, their letters’ and words’ duration,
A leap, a ship, the first kindly creature
Of the sky, asleep-tumbling and spawning,
Creating the fields of its habitation in the deep.