is an enchanted thing
    like the glaze on a
katydid-wing
        subdivided by sun
        till the nettings are legion.
Like Gieseking playing Scarlatti;

like the apteryx-awl
    as a beak, or the
kiwi’s rain-shawl
        of haired feathers, the mind
        feeling its way as though blind,
walks along with its eyes on the ground.

It has memory’s ear
    that can hear without
having to hear.
        Like the gyroscope’s fall,
        truly equivocal
because trued by regnant certainty,

it is a power of
    strong enchantment. It
is like the dove-
        neck animated by
        sun; it is memory’s eye;
it’s conscientious inconsistency.

It tears off the veil; tears
    the temptation, the
mist the heart wears,
        from its eyes – if the heart
        has a face; it takes apart
dejection. It’s fire in the dove-neck’s

iridescence; in the
    inconsistencies
of Scarlatti.
        Unconfusion submits
        its confusion to proof: it’s
not a Herod’s oath that cannot change.

Readings

The Mind is an Enchanting Thing read by Elizabeth McGovern
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