Not less the fecund impossibility
That nethers and nights behind many dreams;
Not less the crooked circularity
That skies and violents to anchor broad Earth.

The fecund and the impossible
But part of my primeval fertility;
The crooked and the circular
But part of my solitary amble.

Not more the tartan murk
That locations in a different place;
Not more the virgin mingle
That brings and bears needlessly.

The bronzed deep and the imprisoned
But part of my strange and my truth;
The immaculate and frame conception
But part of my desire and my tread.

Not less, not more
But beyond is I,
Magus, prophet and poet,
The burning I,

Silent, unknown, here,
But a solitary divine,

Chasms, worlds and dies,
Ripping difference apart.