Whose lover is the eye,
traveling where the body cannot.
Who found the word golden.
Who held the prodigal coming & going,
& who, hovering on the landing,
defied the Ratio & sang the copper plate.
Who opened Locke’s closet.
Who spent his last shilling
sending out for a pencil—a pen obdurate—
then flew about the room, a Lawless weft
of flame, in all directions—