How many statesmen let you move their lips
  like creaking shutters while they stood there dazed?
What statues did you dedicate? What ships

  Her night-dreaming laugh
wound the house around her fingernail.
  Spooled it so tightly

It started like this:
    A plain of yellow and green, 
                    supporting Conestogas.

My body trots semblably
on Market Street. I control
the singular spy from my

Curtis, you’ve been American too long.
You don’t know what it feels like. You belong.
Don’t you, too entirely to explain?

Ship-building emperors commanded
these night-obscuring giant beams,
with open-work like ribs defended

Professor Palamedes darts down Westow Street.
Nothing explains how he avoids
Colliding with mutton, plastics, pianos.

If ghosts existed there are some men
who could never effectually belong
to a thin as air congregation,

The Lion sleeps with open eyes
That none may take him by surprise.
The Son of God he signifies

I want her to be what I need
her to be, i.e., a mirror for my
want. There is no man but owns his own soul.