He dreamt it
as active, warm, secret,
the size of a closed fist, of garnet color in the penumbra of a human body
as yet without face or sex;
with minute love he dreamt it,
for fourteen lucid nights.
A god,
I reflected,
ought to utter
only a single word
and in that word absolute fullness.
No word uttered by him
can be inferior to the universe
or less than
the sum total of time.
Music,
states of happiness,
mythology,
faces belabored by time,
certain twilights
and certain places
try to tell us something,
or have said something we should not have missed,
or are about to say something;
this imminence of a revelation
which does not occur
is, perhaps, the aesthetic phenomenon.
