Imagine a white fantasy imposed on the night's opinion --
sudden surprise of breathless air poised on the end of day,
elastic limbs, language of comets, no need to fill direction,
space itself insufficient to this glimpsed symmetry of movement
over the unbridgeable, a forward burst of progress
or the patience of power held in check.
All muscles, all harmonic lines, fluid on blue like smoke
on water or white fire full of storm, exuberant bursts
of lightening, heart-pumping thrills and sorrows
pouring through the world of gods.
A cloud of cosmic dust alive, risen from the feather-
touch of a bright idea brushed on some bewildered scene,
of time's shifting moods.
The pagan beast of wings and springs,
the shock that tilts the mind toward inspiration.
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