THE ONTOGENY OF MAGI

Mastering growth and self-construction,
cells in prowling thickets turn
and crumple, interdigitate,
slip on each other, sprout;
in the most complex patterns form
the buffalo-headed embryos
which now unfurl the plan of their campaign.

Parading like khans in prams,
imperious and benevolent,
infants weave relatives
through miniature fingers.
Their brain cells fashion sight and words:
they track the causes of a world,
and generate a lumber-room of things.

Masters of bikes and horses now, their bodies sing
with movement, like water. Every bone
and muscle neatly falls into its place,
action by action, decorating time.
Acting their age in downy skins,
they hurtle through their play:
their words cascade in tedious innocence.

Like clouds unrolling in a sweet blue sky,
their minds increase. They orchestrate
the childish melodies they find
singing within them, and, surprised,
observe each other's music.
Entering a new country,
they walk hesitantly, alert.

Grown to be kings of axe and rocket,
we reach the end of all that's easy.
Revolutions come bounding
from our certain minds; mechanisms sprout
under confident fingers--skin sets fire to skin--
while through the busy day, Death hangs around
giggling in annexes and slamming doors.

But do not fear the heavy walls of stone:
the mountain eases, almost smiles;
perhaps there is a way through.
This rock may become mist
and, beyond the mist, the sun
throw all the flowers of a valley
into our watering eyes.

Masters of gold and immortality, we'll shape
our bodies' cells and sinews, paint new self-portraits
in flesh and fur. Now cunning levers shift
timbers into place: the palace rises,
breathing like something real.
To be able to settle in this old world,
and, being immortal, take it easy . . .