The brutes that graved on walls of rock
Patterns of their shaggy God
Knew His thunder, knew His sun,

I imagine: pyramids, obelisks,
the Valley of Kings, and one torn bra.

Thus freed from the mighty pencil, figures
flew over the walls of museums

It might be von Hirsau believed he composed
a celebration, these wood panels brushed
with egg and tempera, a medieval man's rendering

Sealed into the cocoon
Of light and water, face
And racked reflection, voice

Of this aspiring burgher who disdained
(Dumb in his pride of mortified reserve)
The usufruct of half a continent.

Curtis, you’ve been American too long.
You don’t know what it feels like. You belong.
Don’t you, too entirely to explain?

Snow-white ray 
coal-black earth will 
swallow now. 

Truth is lies that have hardened.
This should be obvious from the fact that the obverse is also correct. The same obviousness obtains for correctness.

Truth, which will never be more than the notion of truth, keeps for itself only its own over-guarded presences. 

   The one I am huge and daring for. For whom these hours
   orient, tides furiously reform