What Traders Be These

What traders be these? In a vague Vision they move on mules and Horses. The city to which the go Rarifies in the distant airs Mirages of a red desert Hats of hot air and dust That yet Obfuscate not transparence Beautiful. In the queen waters the bees And the black flies still him Adjusting to their circumstances. Beautiful is the South though It groans under the stresses And waters pass Through the syringes of time And lust. Floated All bloated the body in the Bath For time had passed Was passing. The vision of the Night I saw through the thin eyes Of brazen dusk Mules passed and crossed Slow and tired The threshold Into the fabulous night The waters are ever-changing. Hoots Galore In The Tempest Of Night That Rose Out Of Its Time ‘the Time Is Off. The Time Is Past' The Prophet Erect Said. And Murmured As A Prayer. Let There be repetition in The song And chant of the Poet Seer Not drawl but full pitched Voices. For in the repetition There was the whistling In the Soul that Kept the words and Concepts in nay Fired them to mix And reproduce forms, Other forms, vast, many And inflexible: They had to be held Sub-Conscious replacing Conscious. Close not your eyes in sorrow Now That you in the Sub-Conscious be. I feel the pulse Of the strain on the nerves The hammer beating in the head I feel The Sub-Conscious feel I Now. Before there was the Conscious.