The hidden curvature of space,
granting the possibility of its discovery.
The hermit offers his blood to the night nymphs.
Man writhes at the perpendicular intersection of two lines.
Are you trying to fix an image in my memory?
Why that face?
That face of drizzling midnight.
I see in your pupils the triple mark of genius; imagination seizes your mouth, your fingers swift, tongue, legs, lips, all flood, the tiniest arteriola bends its imaginary matter upon itself, nerves tighten, muscles contract—how many?
Consciousness dawns.
You forge bonds of trust.
In your face the edge of madness.
