Then Was My Neophyte

Then was my neophyte，

Child in white blood bent on its knees

Under the bell of rocks，

Ducked in the twelve， disciple seas

The winder of the water-clocks

Calls a green day and night.

My sea hermaphrodite，

Snail of man in His ship of fires

That burn the bitten decks，

Knew all His horrible desires

The climber of the water sex

Calls the green rock of light.

Who in these labyrinths，

This tidethread and the lane of scales，

Twine in a moon-blown shell，

Escapes to the flat cities' sails

Furled on the fishes' house and hell，

Nor falls to His green myths？

Stretch the salt photographs，

The landscape grief， love in His oils

Mirror from man to whale

That the green child see like a grail

Through veil and fin and fire and coil

Time on the canvas paths.

He films my vanity.

Shot in the wind， by tilted arcs，

Over the water come

Children from homes and children's parks

Who speak on a finger and thumb，

And the masked， headless boy.

His reels and mystery

The winder of the clockwise scene

Wound like a ball of lakes

Then threw on that tide-hoisted screen

Love's image till my heartbone breaks

By a dramatic sea.

Who kills my history？

The year-hedged row is lame with flint，

Blunt scythe and water blade.

'Who could snap off the shapeless print

From your to-morrow-treading shade

With oracle for eye？'

Time kills me terribly.

'Time shall not murder you，' He said，

'Nor the green nought be hurt；

Who could hack out your unsucked heart，

O green and unborn and undead？'

I saw time murder me.