In Front Of A Candle

I formed the holder of gold, as you told me to mother, gold, out of which She comes, a shade, to me, in the middle of fracturing hours, your being-dead’s daughter. Slender in shape, a thin, almond-eyed shadow, her mouth and her sex danced round by creatures from sleep, out of the cave of the gold, she rises up, to the summit of Now. With night-dark-shrouded lips, I speak the Prayer: In the name of the Three who fight with each other, until heaven reaches down into the graveyard of feeling, in the name of the Three, whose rings gleam on my finger, whenever I loose the hair of the trees into the abyss, so that the richer floods rush down through the deeps- in the name of the first of the Three who shrieked, when he was called on to live, where his word went before him, in the name of the second, who watched it and wept, in the name of the third, who piles white stones in the middle – I say you are free of the amen that overpowers us, of the ice-filled light at its rim, there, where tower-high it enters the sea, there, where the grey one, the dove picks at the names this side and that side of dying: You still, you still, you still, a dead woman’s child, sealed to the No of my yearning, wedded to a cleft in time to which the mother-word led me, so that a single spasm would pass through the hand that now, and now, grasps at my heart!