—Dancer to Audience—
What works for me
As in your flatland stillness you grow.
Not ashen witnesses.
But eye-bones, eye-muscle fields of hovering
With me,
is this: is with me:
Is a body out-believing existence:
The shining of perfection, the myth-chill.
I hold what I have.
Hold hard, and wait for my travel
To time-bind, and be raised
High enough in closed flight, high enough in low candle-
power to burn barns and set
All rafters free:
to reach and rarify the lyric beasts.
Some distance
Down, unfurl sit loosed and hawking
At me, as I am hurled and buried
Out of you in midair.
In hounded flame-outs stalling and renewing.
Pale with chasm-sweat
through Chaos
Set going by imaginative laws.
One flawless seizure bringing on another.
The search-and-destroy of creatures in the void.
In your ashen ditch of witness
take off your bags of shot, and be with me
As one, like a rising curtain,
materializing, enchanted with unnecessary being.
Emblem-eyed, degenerate with symbols.
Work-beasts of lightness, icy with void-sweat.
For, in bitter, over-valued radiation.
One form may live from another, and may follow
The grain of closed flight, as through board.
In the loft of the ice-bound
Soft-heeled foot, we shall leave nothing
To chance, enfabled, driven-up
Toward death in some foregone position—the dead-lift.
To go-devil fury—knowing that flight is only
One of the floating latencies of muscle:
An infinite elongation.
Come from your hovering ashes;
Join and defy me
To out-live you out-die outflesh out-spirit
At the eerie, demonic torpor of the crest.
Young outriders of the Absolute,
Swan flower phoenix.
Controlled, illusory fire is best
For us. Rise and on faith
Follow. It is better that I should be;
Be what I am not, and I am.
James Dickey
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