The maples' glory is their own release,
A martyrdom tricked out to tempt a saint;

Your little crush on the grotesque did not admit of cure;

Creatures of many hungers say we’re near.

The man is ripping through the brambles. He is
lost, tangled. He seems beside himself with grief.

Two old men, father-in-law and son-in-law, Liszt and Wagner, 
    are staying by Canal Grande 
together with the agitate woman who is married to King Midas 

Although it is noon or roughly so, the church below is
   positioned like an hour hand 
at eleven o’clock, 

What can I say? I know the textile trade,
Its crafts, its business, inside and out.
Each side of the Atlantic is the same;

persistent, flowing through fallen shadows,
excavating tunnels, drilling silences,
insisting, running under my pillow,

No one said the spasm of battle would last forever. Nor asked: Is there a violence sadder than the word island? Said: you have found a ruse and will reinvent it forever. Swords will continue to cams from sheaths, the crest will lodge the fiery moon and from now on a tangled mass of sails will signify exalted impatience, not the traditional annoyance of fear.

The gravid gecko lies
aslant a stalk of banana, 
just a tilde over