Mina Loy

Brancusi’s Golden Bird

        The toy
        become the aesthetic archetype

As if
        some patient peasant God
        had rubbed and rubbed
        the Alpha and Omega
        of Form  
        into a lump of metal

        A naked orientation
        unwinged   unplumed
            —the ultimate rhythm
        has lopped the extremities
        of crest and claw
        the nucleus of flight

        The absolute act
        of art
        to continent sculpture
        —bare as the brow of Osiris—
        this breast of revelation

        an incandescent curve
        licked by chromatic flames
        in labyrinths of reflections

        This gong
        of polished hyperaesthesia
        shrills with brass
        as the aggressive light
        its significance

        The immaculate
        of the inaudible bird
        in gorgeous reticence  . . .