Brief but complete

Internautes,
I present to you this poemlet with the disclaimer that I don't always feel this way. Please try to judge it otherwise than as a revelation of the character of the author, as I firmly believe in the ultimately impersonal nature of the craft, despite concerns particular and personal doing the actual writing.

Who were you and of what subtlety?
Your breathy words rhymed sound with place.
Black head of hair on which dust glittered,
I leapt forth to thou
Having been born to heaviness, and am lost.

I, knife upon this canvas, knew no cause
But without hint of pattern oft returned
To long, dour streets preceding me
Weighty and inhospitable to thought.

Methods and arts various crossed my brow
Then my guide, for so she must have been,
Fled in bright dust.
Line and circle all my science of man,
Unreachable atoms my utmost thought,

I ask only, were you she?
Black head of hair on which dust glittered
I now recollect or see
At which end of the journey do you come?
Who are you and of what subtletly?