A New Invocation

Muse, as often as we broach new thoughts
We seek new consolations; every method
Finds itself again in your sweet breath,
Your never-acrid or bitter (the muse
Lives far from death, she doesn't chew
On mounds of purpled, spell-bound bones;
Now it's the leaf of a lotus, now the faded perfume
Of twilight). I won't rhyme anymore, muse: gone
Are the days eclipsed in the shadow of obscure thought;
Sensuality is overwrought, and the self, like the truth,
Escapes me. What I want you to do now, my muse, my
Ariel, is fetch a pale of water -- there are two deep rivers
And you shouldn't confuse them: one leads down
To the depths, another arouses the twinkling stars; these pools
Of blackness are themselves surrounded in the glow
Of an infinite nothing, poetic skill. Draw,
From the waters of drought, lapidary stone, the red one,
And bring it to me as a mark of your love: it is the all seeing eye.