Ariadne
Pay attention: I have been yielded out of the earth in a white bag;
the body in it was not blue or light blue or grinning, it was a soup
of every old organ, every broad bit of skin; it has been reformed
to factor the universe; it has died in a number of extraordinary ways,
fanatical and hanging in Cyprus, rendering out young in Cyprus,
ruthless or tender Artemis in Cyprus; look how it has been made
to follow the same sad element, the same thin line of string that leads
constantly, mechanically out; I arrive now wholly congealed; my form
is a genuflection, an echo, the marble head of a tragic woman.
Pay attention: I am not myself; neither you nor I nor anyone
will be capable of legitimately piecing me together.
Listen: a white bull is in the streets of Crete; I have begun
to believe that he is also my father. When you come to rid the rest
of me, notice how I, too, in sleep, do not defend myself at all.
