What is the grass? Oh, that's an easy one:
the Fool. The life that doesn't know it is.
What is the earth? A god, who covers his
dead skin with life to ease his lonely run.
What is the sky? A goddess. And the sun
that scars her form: the mark of the god's kiss.
What is the night? A cipher. The abyss
that chews even gods' hearts. It pardons none.
Who is your love? A curio on the shelf,
to be taken down and polished once a year.
Who are you? A mirror that displays
its environs, but cannot see itself.
Who am I? Old atavistic fear,
Medusa on whose face I dare not gaze.
From geegaw, Zadie Smith on American writers and their hair. This fucking rules. Read it.