for C.
Although your fingers and my eyes agree,
It is unheard of, Cameron, what you see—
Describing scenes of color, form, and light
Which you perceive by any means but sight.
We cannot know the god’s unheard-of head,
Protested Rilke, when he should have said
Unseen, because we hear of it from him
In carnal terms, becoming of a hymn
To any of those bad old gods, the kind
That loved man’s form but not his living mind,
Delighting in some tyrant’s blinding wrath,
Then disappearing in the aftermath.