Ah
Mother, the dead
Mother, the dead are deafening now.

It is seen that the loveliest girls have begun
To lower their eyes

The heart bleeds dark.
Death is a journey home.

        Aiee, father of mine, father of mine,
        What are these shouts in the rain, these voices in the air?

I am, Madam., no beggar, but a peddler of dreams,
Purveyor of the Gospel of Beauty, Reciter of Rhymes . . .

And they regarded him from the shadows of their porches,

I open a volume of fluid. 
A bright sloth orphanage glints 
from the screen within the screen, 

Teukros: . . . in sea-girt island: Cyprus, where it was written
        by Apollo I should live, naming the city Salamis
        to remember my island home

At three A.M. we passed
through the Great Pit
and our boat, which had always been creaky

My gift to you will be an abyss, she said, 
but it will be so subtle you’ll perceive it
only after many years have passed

The memory of Lisa descends again
through night’s hole.
A rope, a beam of light