Aug 122011
The mind is portable, and its jar is gemmed
With prinks of light that color what it is,
How it sees itself and makes the world. 

The mind's not mind that consecrates its acts
By pure formula without reference to fact,
A mute maestro fiddling fortissimos of the sea.

The mind's not mind that curmudgeonly contracts
From dauntless dwellings on the abstract
To rote particulars of minor fact.

The mind is portable, but not without itself
Or its jar does it go the world about,
Packing up perspective freaks of circumstance

Into abstract projections that rainbow a world,
Articulate abstracts of that and that
That adumbrate austerely the moiling void.

The stars are projective gems of crowns
That hemmed us in, and that we have thrown away
Playing marbles with the void. Still, we see them, dimly,

In the besetting dark, past projects of the self
With the sun gone down and the night fresh as a wish;
Still we wear them in our dreams as crowns, dimly,

Effortless masters of fact in our jarring jars. 

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