So, at the base of all we know
And think most ordered, there presides
Chance, the prime mover who provides

Evasive souls, of whom the wise lose track,
Die in each night, who, with their day-tongues, sift
The waking-taste of manna or of blood:

Poetry as salutation; taste
Of Pentecost’s ashen feast. Blue wounds.
The tongue’s atrocities. Poetry

Those piers like huge stone feet
Stand in the ebb.
                   Twice a day

If we go back, if we walk into the old darkness. 
And find Washington brooding under the long bridges,
We will find the dead still ablaze in the anguish of the egg,

Look at you bringing 
Your children up just as formerly 
And look at me back again 

Look at you bringing 
Your children up just as formerly 
And look at me back again 

Out walking ties left over from a track
Where nothing travels now but rust and grass,
I half-believe in something that would pass

Brooming the streets, sick drunk he hated life.
Winter after winter, his whining wife
Forgave him about midnight, and then she prayed,

A door: 
             PER L’UNIVERSO 
                        is what it says