Fire, air, water: the primal gods, in their spiral mockery, Gave you a form— What a terrifying, solitary form they gave you; Into the blood of those who touched you They poured desire, like flies. Fire, air, water: the primal gods, in their crooked mockery, Gave me the fever to compose script— As if I too were fire, air, water, As if I were creating you as well. The shape of your face is not blood, not flesh, not desire, But a midnight cedar island; Some distant, lonely bluish island. Though handled by coarse hands, You are still vanishing into the earthen world; I am vanishing into the shadow of stars of a far-off island. Fire, air, water: the primal gods, in their crooked mockery, Scatter the seeds of form across the earth, Scatter the seeds of dreams. Amazed, I wonder— Where are you tonight? Why does form fail to recognize The star-shadow of that solitary cedar island— That human form of the earth? Handled by coarse hands—handled—handled—handled—handled— Handled—handled— Fire, air, water: the primal gods burst into ho-ho laughter: “Handled—handled—does it turn into pig’s flesh?” I burst into laughter too!— Within the thunder of laughter all around, The dark sea seemed to swell, Bearing the corpse of a gigantic whale; All the forms of the world are like the stench Of immeasurable whale carcasses— Wherever I go, I move through those seas of meteors—meteors— How natural it is, How utterly natural.
