At first, he wondered why he should be spared;
Observed, of all the windows, none was barred,
And every door swung open at a word.

I went this morning, this
white arc of year now nearly come whole here,
again to seek those sites

Underneath the damask rose
The marriage lace is torn.
Lift up loblolly days to disclose

To our ruined vineyards come,
Little foxes, for your share
Of our blighted grapes, the tomb
Readied for our common lair
Ants, we open you the cupboard;
Flee no more the heavy hand
Harmless as a vacant scabbard
Since our homes like yours are sand.

Those only who were bored as Ulysses
Ever came home. The remnant soldiering on
Dwelt on the pet names round their hated seas,

In the environs of the funeral home 
The smell of death was absent. All I knew 
Were flowers rioting and odors blown 

No, nothing is asleep in this demesne 
      Of scrub pine, washed-out oak; the wet 
           Intrudes on every cache, 

Preferring ‘resemblance to beauty,’ 
There were some who found more 
Truth in Philoktetes’ rotten legs 

Perhaps by the time I have written this
the last three or four will also be gone: 
not many people will mark a few less

   O depth sufficient to desire, 
Ghostly abyss wherein perfection hides, 
   Purest effect and cause, you are