The creator god, when last we saw him,
Crouched in beggarweeds, grotesque, and fairly repulsive,
Covered in splotches of moonlight, small pox, leprosy, whatever,
In a fever did smelt.
It was sometime later, after being toted
Place to place as an ugly curio, in displays and exhibits,
Left in a barn where sleet beat off the veneer of ash, the rags,
The hidden gilt, that
It was discovered, as we shall see, to be
The perfect crystalline image of
A beautiful man.
Wu Ling had the thing for sometime before
He gradually became aware, through unplanned meditations on it,
That information pertinent to the use of light
(he was a performer then) upon the stage
could be had
just by imitating the way
glimmers in the body came and went; now strong,
now soft, now none at all.
But just as a feel
For the pulse came and went, so at the moment
Wu Ling came close to seeing the creator god as himself,
The illusion, and surely it was one,