So Scriabin

broods on his mount

ain pon

                   dering

                   black con

                   figurations--it is the

                   black, the cracks

                   between the black

                   keys as he

ponders

                   the bleak black pro

trusions in a sea of white

Scriab

                   in, his

                   mind

like a chessboard

set absently on a

pianotop, Scria

                             bin’s

pianotop

the Chopinesque black

candles--

                             Maestro: tips

                             of your vel

                             vet sleeves touch

a sea of white

                             filched

                             fingers

                             pilfer

bleak

                   est

                                      black

                                                          est

                                      flame

                                                          fric

tion

of cabbalistic leaves

in a bog pin

                                      wheel

                                      (select

                                       an image)

spin

          ning

                   spi

                                      raling

chasms convulse in multi

hues

                   to elect elec

                                                trify

                                                                   your senses

                   nos

                   trils

                   yours, Scri

abin

                   filled with the scent

                   of the rosy god

                   dess--in her ar

                   ousal she spills

                   all the seed of the world

                   in a single

Night.

                   The candles burn

                   down in their black

                   ness (will the Footman

                   come to replace them?)

                   and antipodal

Winds

                   claim their fire. Maestro, O Maestro:

Chaos

                    is your

                     Mother (though you have known

                    the clear sweet lakes of craters)

Fearsome

                   the Night-

Goddess, Pro

                                      genetrix of chthonic

                                      marionettes.  Now

Breathe, Maestro

                                      with the Nostrils

                                       of the Cosmos

your fra

                   grant con

                   cantenation

rising to inflame

the Nostrils of the Cosmos

in

                                      hail

              ing mul

                                      titudenous

                             stars                               ex

          hail                                 ing

                             um                                   bil

                                                ical

                                                                              Worlds