Those Various Scalpels

Those

various sounds, consistently indistinct, like intermingled echoes

   struck from thin glasses successively at random—

       the inflection disguised: your hair, the tails of two

   fighting-cocks head to head in stone—

       like sculptured scimitars repeating the curve of your

               ears in reverse order:

                                                                        your eyes,

             flowers of ice and snow

sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabled ships: your

       raised hand

an ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettes

   of blood on the stone floors of French châteaux,

with regard to which the guides are so affirmative—

          your other hand

a bundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds from Persia

    and the fractional magnificence of Florentine

       goldwork—a collection of little objects—

sapphires set with emeralds, and pearls with a moonstone, made fine

   with enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue;

      a lemon, a pear

and three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, a magnificent square

cathedral tower of uniform

   and at the same time diverse appearance—a

species of vertical vineyard, rustling in the storm

   of conventional opinion—are they weapons or scalpels?

       Whetted to brilliance

by the hard majesty of that sophistication which is superior to opportunity,

these things are rich instruments with which to experiment.

    But why dissect destiny with instruments

    more highly specialized than the components of destiny

            itself?