I have too clear a mind for dreaming,
		she said as she ordered her thoughts away
		from the distances they were meant to approach
		and surround with incantations of thought,
		with benedictions that carried cloudiness
		into the world of too much logic and fact--
		to make the most prodigiously dancing statement,
		to make the most motionless music speak.

		As she said what she said, newer thoughts
		formed a tangible world of their own--
		with the sky, and the grass, and the earth
		furiously alive, furiously real, peopled
		as if by mistake, by the same unidentified men
		who demanded their newly made lives be a story
		--differences seen, advantage of each admitted--
		and that she be the one to tell:

		"In the definition of oneself, what is oneself
		but what the mind of another has one be?
		A stage of flux, a cycle of expression,
		a monad of breath, half-fish, half-bird,
		a human fully conscious of oneself,
		a story of a life not fully told yet imagined
		with all the colors one can see and sense
		in all four worlds susceptible to love and color?"

		She would be fair: she would define each
		through his honest love of her, that being
		an amorphous and hard to define thing
		not lending itself easily to scales or rulers,
		laurels of glory or medals of perfection,
		well-sharpened wits or post-scientific methods
		of finding the culprit by the manner of his deeds,
		the manner of his thoughts remaining doubly hidden.

		She would be fair; she would collect from each
		a love of just his size and shape of mind,
		no more than his imagination could contain and give--
		a well-formed thought, an inchoate cry, a foppish praise
		not so much beautiful or kind but truthfully
		the shadow enshrouding his uninvented self
		which loved because it lived: not she--
		the object of his love but he--love's origin and meaning.

		She would give back to each one his identity. Each
		would have a story so suited to his needs
		that every word would strike a memory
		in his not so newly hatched as newly defined love
		mimicked with new meanings yet as century old
		as himself. A story of his love would be her definition
		of what he was and what he would become,
		when all chimeras of his own making

		fly to the other side of consciousness,
		while the reality of clouds, snow, rain
		is brusquely shoved away from heaven,
		then poured into his lap as well imagined
		as only true things can be. Alive and moving,
		always turning back into himself,
		his mask of words glistening with newer definitions,
		he is himself at last. And he is hers.

		One of the many becomes the only one whose story
		grows to be punctuated by exclamations of her love
		of long ago, well before she made him up:
		her thought, an artifice in the artificial world,
		created him, a man, in the world of rain and snow,
		a man in the world of things that breathe and wonder
		at man's being one with trees, her as a tree
		whose branches sway to give him shade, repose.