It is the chalice of all essence
Because it does not exist. Because it cannot be,
It owns the purest of being.
Between moonlight and shadows
Are offering to it the merest contingency
That it might exist,
The rough salt we proffer, with which
We tease it, withhold, and, unable thus
To coax it forth
From its dark nook in the green forest,
Feed unto our too-contingent selves.
Ah, lord of the rare beasts, of the pounded salt,
That we might, improbably,
And that where a dry twitching stirs
Among dry, self-writhing leaves
Might that uncombed mane,
Those prancing hooves, the magic
Our stamping, swift,
Companionable steed . . .
Poems used with permission of the authors, and may not be re-used without their permission.