Having birthed a child of substance, not of
Water; having loosened the interminable weight;
I must swallow Self to tend my infant fire.
Creation kneels its forehead to my fate.
No planetary love of moon and sun
Could carve from ash of Selves what we have carved:
Cleaved things now sautered, severedness made one;
Love sharpened by and sharpening the stars,
Contained in arms, and noses, and in knees
A beauty to whom, surely, is akin
The bee that swarms and kindly never stings:
Eternity in skin, and skin, and skin.
I fear that it shall feed and flourish, sire,
Till I hold nothing unfed by that fire.
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