II The Subjection
And not less is, cannot be more,
All center, surface, herself,
Continuous simulacra rising
Outward to this form, where here she is,
Offered in the cave, their flying and glinting
On a hill, spume aloft and facet,
And in the forest there on all
The trees at once dazzled like a wind.
And does she think? What thought is possible
To that body’s absolute curve, head, its
Supple repose? Then, if anything,
A rhythm of becoming, herself, her,
Innermost, most infinitesimal
Simulacrum in triumph on waves
Of rosiness riding to her skin.
Quickly, this ease he translates
To opportunities , discovers answers,
Landfalls, clues to a something hidden
Where he has left the leavings of his brush
-In armpits and leg pit a splotch,
Trickle of hair, three sapient beards.