He perceives that it rolls and careens
like the floods of botany
and prepares periodically its flux and reflux
O saints may you not be ceintured with sound breasts
Your sign-language would be a hand that's all thumbs
shaken by delirium tremens
O saints what do you have on your hands
Is that a smaller hand
that turns up another smaller hand
and so on until the consummation of hands
The dust stirs in its solitude
It wishes the silence surrounding it
were peopled with winged phantoms
with the voices of rotten trunks
of fair women like the white lady
of old men descending the mountain
preyed on by eternal snows
of the big soft mountains
where the dancers' sandals
spin veer and dive