REVERIE

Admiring how The Moods return again
sea-leveled, back to Innocence:

sand palaces weathering a higher plane
than they could from first attain

(before being eternally immersed
in grown-up into rock recurring human malices

paying back, returning
and never atoning, still

forever ebbing, always overrunning

Ill Thoughts like sandblast the Riptide gnaws
compact & caked) we pause

in mortal awes
unable to hold on, ever with our frail laws

like desperate immortal claws
nervously fingering The Moment
that withdraws,        

         admiring
those neap Moods (of Impulse)

Mind must admit it's blind, "But,
imagination sees things as they truly are!

before Brightness compounds them
with its Wit & mathematic Proof, & dry
squared Particular..."

(Such a confusion of Sheer Light
as makes sensible men concede
their glaring muteness). And then,

art Nothing makes with its mad impasses of disarrays
but maybe a quicker passing over witless days

dying of constancy,

and its fanciful Shows unpen
upon The Dust like Moods

such a great joyous purifying Bath
as washes from eyes on the watch
Anyone's blinding wrath

sufficient to drain
Memory's cosmic domain of numbness

(made crystal by the humdrum rain
of Refrain) grain upon

grain, waving its gain after gain

where The Slain tides of men
into timelessness wane

(too brilliant art)

over the pained, beached brain.