Spring 1965 • Vol. XXVII No. 2 Poetry |

The Unreachable Sun

You used to open seasons in which spring would invade us through the smallest wound; the planet would revolve, a room of waiting; the roosters would fight until they struck sparks from their beaks, the prince would shake out his clothes and a diamond would fall on the plate. You used to raise northern residences in space wounded by the splendor of the salamander; you would dilute yourself, a host in the air, a ghost of pollen; a simple, complicated scarfpin made with a clean drop and a piece of straw. You used to be in Rome every time power changed hands, behind your small broken mirror a tear would answer signals from other worlds; you were the unforgettable in itself expanding in an hour of sixty centuries; intensity in itself sowing its flash in magnesium galaxies. And besides, weren't you the one surrendered to vertigo, the absolute woman,divinely elevated into the sky of fireworks and fusing palm trees? Perhaps you didn't eulogize the battlements which float high abo

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