And now the objects return. Chief interests
of their divine secular lives no longer
idle. Thought anticipates them, but they aren’t

Experience teaches, but its lessons 
may be useless. I could have done without
a few whose only by-product is grief,

Reclaimed from brushwood,
from coarse rank grass interspersed
with stagnant bog water,

It rises from the North Atlantic’s stacks
as radio silence, a generalized lack
of discursive tone or narrative movement distinguished

Sad storm of objects becoming things,
the objective correlative, tired of me
as I am of it. I embody everything it hates

This is the house the South built. 
This is the mouse that gnawed at the house 
The South built. This is the cat 

Within 電 a field poetics:
sky, rain, lightning over la milpa—
components in the symbol

I shall have Beauty underground.
Poppæa was once in my tumbrel, you see.
So were blithe Helen and white Iope

XXXIV

We are falling through the abyss      Voices, of terror,
come to me I try to answer but sense

even higher
among the oaks
there is nothing but oaks