Upon the wall of her bed chamber, so the legend
goes, the poetess Laura Riding had inscribed in
letters of gold: GOD IS A WOMAN

The genius mixt too strong a cup.
At noon the lethargy remains.
We cannot shake it off.

Sleep lingers all our lifetime in our eyes
as night at midday hovers
in the fir tree boughs.
The Genius brews his lethal cup.
All things swim and glitter.

The magic in convolutions of our company
winks its lights. Its touch is slight
and vital. But we are bearish magickers,
makers of lightnings in half-sleep of furry storm.

It is the magic of not touching,
not-looking sharpenings of the eye,
dim thunders of imaginings. Half-loves
kept short of love’s redeeming fire,

temperd to fear and sharpend
to a knife-edge-cut. It flashes
in the air. But we are bear-like
dreamers in a lifetime’s hibernation,

the sleep of summer’s heroes,
of romance’s mountain magic. The shadow hovers
in the doom bejeweld fir and whispers.
The daemon swims and glitters in each face.

Each sleepy bearish hero short of love
recounts his dreams. The fir
casts on the day’s continuum of light
a shade of language dragon red with hope.

It is the magic of not-touching,
the hostile speech of rigid magickers.
And we are unawakend dreamers,
sleep-talking miseries of animal despair.

I have within my heart a tree, a fir
of shadows. Hibernia of dreams.
“The Speech,” I said, “is sexual.
It tells our lovers what we are: excites
the hesitating ear of an animal mind.”

“But beasts,” then Curran said, “at least
would nudge each other.”