The sun is a drum
                 the moon is a cymbal 
The flow of time is caught in a cup.

If maybe we could form a little group
Say something like Bloomsbury and we all
Could write biographies of each other

Into Miami at night then out over gulf island and jungle

We had traveled so fast that we arrived
on the right bank of the RÍo de la Plata

The shadow of the photographer reaches over
almost to the wee tyke in a sombrero who listens
to the music these horny hardrock miners are making

The moon is sick. I fear she'll die
from lack of love, from poverty
and homelessness, lost in the sky,

What they had for ideals
must persist in the taut set
of that rearing horse's head,

Flecked on a layer of mortar on the pillbox lid,
the tiles pieced together by some kindred myopic
have caught this much of Tuscany: hills worn down

Now I am flying a land
compressed below me, a realm,
I alight and descend to:
Long Island as it was in the cold

It rested on dried sea-hair matting the rocks.
Its mouth a gash of deep disapproval. It stared and stared,
A clouded celluloid look, a carved stillness

The suddenly bought land
Was stilled in its habits. Indians
Too light-fingered for events