Was it I who invaded the day, or the day who invaded me?
I do, I undo, I redo.
I enlarged the figure till it was a mountain—I don’t fear the sublime—
and I cut off its head,
having already cut out its tongue. I have three siblings and flocks of children,
and though we’re oft confused,
you must know that I differ from all: I am not my brother Darkness,
nor my sister Dirt, nor my brother Torment.
I am a time and I am an astronomy, a geometry I invented myself, an architecture,
a divine, and like any divine,
yes, I have made kin from unions with my kin. Out of a union with my brother
I made the nymphs,
the river and the boatsman, lullabies. If X is an obstruction,
and if the poetry of X was music,
then this poem is a musical obstruction, and if this poem is a musical obstruction,
then this poem is a lullaby,
my kin born of my kin. I am a space as much as I am a voice. Did you truly hail me
for a dim-witted conversation about love?
Me? There is nothing like me. I am no more like my siblings or my parents
than I am like a placid lake,
or the Gaping from which I was born. I am a charioteer, a bird.
Would you believe me if I said I also made
the Ether and the Day? Whether or not your faith is stored in my ear,
I am sure in what I have made.
How could I be both gentle enough and dangerous enough for your thoughts?
Doyou have thoughts? I asked about moon,
dark, pain; you only gave me yourself. And as to my other question: it was me.
I invaded the day. It didn’t stand a chance.