At the round earth's imagined corners, blow

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow
through your instruments, the wooden flutes
resound, the cornets flourish, the royalty
arrays itself in heaven. She's a spectacle

of wind and water, the play of four elements
in a material sphere. The angels arising
in the infinite space like tongues of flame
aspiring toward the nothing. I have made

a sequence of phonemes, an art that confuses
the whirling globe. The riddles of the poems
the Persians left, the alphabets without

symbols for vowels. She is the gesture
of the broad world, movement of the valleys
and mountains that man just cannot explain.