The ice plant is not in flower:
it extends, a springy floor

over the rocks and the sand

The traveler struggles through a wood. He is lost.
The traveler is at home. He never left.
He seeks his way on the conflicting trails,

Look, in the attic, the unentered room,
A naked boy leans on the outspread knees
Of his tall brother lolling in costume,

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

One night I reached a cave: I slept, my head
Full of the air. There came about daybreak
A red-coat soldier to the mouth who said

Lictor or heavy slave would wear it best,
The robe of uncapricious Emperor,
Waging a profitable war, at least

     You are not random picked. I tell you you
     Are much like the one I knew before, that died.
     Shall we sit down, and drink and munch a while

One by one they appear in 
the darkness: a few friends, and 
a few with historical 

Now since his death you've lost the wish for sleep,
In which you might mislay the wound of feeling:

I look round the cluttered
icons of your room:
quilt, photo, stuffed bird.