He knows about the destruction caused by reaction:
emotional wounds, self-inflicted, a repeated torture
he brings about, trying to interrogate the self

Morgan retreats. He retreats into Schubert,
into his journal, into his imagination, his silence.
Away from the personalities, the out-of-order,

 Who can explain the tears in his eyes, realizing
the historical moment crossing into the present,
mountains behind the orchestra at Epidaurus,

The only heir, memory cannot bless any new deed
With the marks of management, transported
To newer keys into worldly ends. Even a trusting

Morgan saw Athena's face in the crowd
at the Athens International Airport
where the Chaos became a genesis for

Roadside grasses are seen
to vary, stem and thistledown:
pale straw or light brown,

If you’d seen
        lightning nets in clear water, 
midnight blue beyond the reefs;

Barrel bombs. Chlorine gas. Tomahawks.
The crowd balks
at the little lute sleeping through the news.

We make pilgrimages, we pay tribute,
as its backward-glancing heroine
is a painter’s tribute to a poet’s stanzas.

We were between armor and mummies 
                on the ground floor,
weighing preservation in a tin