I never drink from this blue tin cup
speckled with white
without thinking of stars on a clear,
cold night—of Venus blazing low
over the leafless trees; and Canis
great and small—dogs without flesh,
fur, blood or bone . . . dogs made of light,
apparitions of cold light, with black
and trackless spaces in between . . . .
The angel gave a little book
to the prophet, telling him to eat—
eat and tell of the end of time.
Strange food, infinitely strange,
but the pages were like honey
to his tongue . . . .
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 2 Number 9, on page 52
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