Revelation at Cap Ferrat

It’s not solely the dance of the juggler but his spirit: with its turkey wings, perfect thighs, sensuous hips, large round flat eye. This eye smiles like lips. Watch this eye— it’s not a donkey eye. It’s not solely the dancer who moves like a circus animal as though to children’s music—no, it’s the girl in the swing’s rhythm, the ticking of the clock at night, the strut of the cock, the flight of the holy family to the remains. The nipple that feeds the infant is an eye looking into his future. It’s not even the village square with its musicians and happy faces that makes the difference—no, because if it were, weddings with violins, harps, flutes would have settled the question: no, it is the rising and lifting, the failing and catching of that unknown sense of self before it crashes, that matters.