The arrow pointing three directions
Is a looser, more open form of display,
More like the subsidiary decor

Scourging the sea with rods
To punish it for what it has engulfed.
Or running naked with your bronzed friend

Power rigs drift like lights out past the breakwater,
                                               white, and fluorescent white.
The sea moving them up and down

We fly above Kenitra
Circling so low
I almost smell the fig trees’

Flute—a simple remedy
of which the herb is sound.

My eye is a planet with another motion,

At the failing of summer
just when autumn is breaking
the pavement with its strong back,

And what if now I told you this, let’s say,
By telephone. Would you imagine me
Talking to myself in an empty room,

When I returned to the hive I was one
Among many, in a blistering hum;
A braid of air had brought me far from home,

“Work shall set you free:” a sensible sentiment:
Marx would agree: Freud would give his assent:
Yet take those words and put them on a sign

No earthly image —only clouds,
affluent clouds, seen from high above,
still bright at the approach of evening.