THE STONE FROM THE SEA The white heart of our world, without violence did we lose it today at the hour of the yellowing corn leaf: a round tangle, so it rolls easily from our hands. What remains for us is to spin the new, the reddish wool of sleep at the sandy burial site of the dream: a heart no longer, though still the mane of the stone from the depth, the meager ornament of its forehead, that thinks on mussel and wave. Maybe, so that at the gate of that city in midair a nightly will will raise it, opening its eastern eye above the house where we lie, the blackness of the sea around our mouths and the tulips from Holland in our hair. They carry lances ahead, as we carried dream, as the white heart of our world rolls from our hands. Thus the curly gossamer around its head: a strange wool, beautiful instead of a heart. O knocking, it came and it left! In finitude, the veils wave.