The apple-stars have gently dropped to earth
And settled in the trees, stars you can taste

Laid out in detail in the tree,
The soul glittering for a while in a green body

                The bishop named his turtle Tortuga.
An austere choice, but the bishop is austere:
he wears old stained trousers and lives in the dark

                So here I go in the famous Spanish slowness.
Clouds advance in their relentless armada—
(Thornton Wilder once said it takes a year 

                 A few months back, we went down to Huelva 
to clean our graveyard—condoms hung 
from the saplings shooting up from the dead: 

Because:

            a garter snake slid over my bare foot

We are happy walking on the dead,
sea breezes milling with the herbs ground down
on the hard pestle of the earth

The trees are equal to the wind tonight.
Our thoughts are in a foreign town. One dream
gives the lemon wings—and the orange flight.

And it was nothing, so the driver said,
digesting elephant steaks or zebra,
his stomach open like a corolla

“Wall Street says that cake sales are low”
Or to put it bluntly
“Cake is fizz”