Spring 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1956 |

Narcissus: Vision and Retrospect

The little-known bird of the inner eye.— Consciousness assuming the shape of a heron.— —Titles of Morris Graves. I taste the bones of my enormous skull.— —Lorca. Still I kneel in the colorless Pew, my skull in my hands, One of those arid usual Times of the end of prayer, After the forms I made Or learned my hope- Ful and innocent years (After the easy and Almost indigenous Aves). My hands bring to my eyes Shut in their dying sockets A grieving touch of pressure: Why, this starts blue colors! Whirled parabolas! Tipped And formal diamonds! A thin Bronze perimeter of a sun That shoots its Bernini rays Into the lids of my eyes. I meant to try the aid Of a saint this needful day. It is long since help, Will she grudge me a sign?Why, why not show Her self among these bright And baroque shapes that grow Huge as my head, and this Counterchange of pain? I find a nerve, it crosses Bones of the nose at the eye's Corner: Holidays of fire Swirl in my head awhile! Un

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