I gave myself to knowing
and, by all that is known,
became a star, brilliant and alone.
History has many named armies.
Believe this, or believe it not,
the more I know, the more my personality
becomes a blot—
you do not wish to know me—and you know me not.
Innocence invites love. When I knew nothing
I was followed and rained on and knew the paradox
of the innocent whore—
which, in my wisdom, I feel no more.
I fend off love I understand is not love.
Now I know. Nothing is love which moves below.
Nor is this. The clouds are too slow.
Knowledge frightens the loveliness above.