Conqueror of the sea, he trod the solidnLand which is the root of mountain ranges,nMotionless in time, a sleeping compass,nAnd over which he notes an uncertain route.nIn the hereditary shade of orchards,nMelville crosses the evenings of New EnglandnBut sea inhabits him. It is the shamenOf the mutilated captain of the Pequod,nThe untranslatable ocean and its tempestsnAnd the abomination of that whiteness.nIt is the great book. It is azure Proteus.nJohn 1:14nSome Islamic histories have the storynOf a certain king in the East, who, victimizednBy boring splendor, went out in disguisenAnd by himself to wander the poor quarternAnd lose himself amidst the crush of peoplenWhose hands were rough and names soon forgotten.nToday, like that Emir Haroun al-Rashid,nGod desires to walk among the humblenAnd so he suckles at a mother’s breast,nJust like those kin that crumble into dust.nSo the whole globe shall be conveyed to him,nAir, water, morning, lily, stone and bread,nAnd after that the bloody martyrdom.nThe mockery, the lash, the nails, the wood.nAdam Is Your AshesnThe sword will perish like the sprig of flowers.nCrystal is no more breakable than rock.nThings are their own destiny of dust.nIron is corrosion. The voice, echo.nAdam, the youthful father, is your ashes.nThe last garden will presently be the first.nThe nighhngale and Pindar are but voices.nThe dawn is the reflection of the sunset.nThe Mycenaean is the golden mask.nThe towering rampart is the broken wall.nUrquiza, what the daggers leave behind.nThe face that eyes the same face in the mirrornIs not yesterday’s face. The night has eaten it.nTirne, delicate time, is shaping us.nWhat luck to be the invulnerable waternThat flows in Heraclitus’ parable.nOr the intricacies of fire, — but just now.nIn this long day that seems not to be passing,nI feel myself both durable and decrepit.nnnAPRIL 1992/27n