The first time I dreamt of Primum Mobile,
Beatrice led me through a silver postern
to a baptismal font and two sculptures
arranged about a primitive garden.
To my left, a brass replica of Earth
rested upon a marble capital,
the entire length of Italy covered
by a finely molded Roman sandal.
To my right, a statue of Perseus
pointed upward with a golden scepter.
When I walked around the garden, Jesus
appeared before the baptismal water,
a cross-beam turning slowly over him,
a goat’s and lamb’s head fixed on either end.

As it spun, each head dipped in the water—
then he cupped his hands to drink from it
and said, “It is evenly mixed, Father,”
whereupon it turned to blood on his lips.
I bowed in deference when he finished
and trembled as his footsteps came toward me,
gripping tighter still the hand of Beatrice,
too dazed to lift my head to watch him speak:
“Having drunk from the source, I see the end
arising, the thirst that came before us—
a flaw in the midst of perfection—
thirst that wells up in an empty darkness
to shape every story of the living—
it precedes us and brings the world to be.”