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

          We often elude the scimitars
of the Zouaves among the furniture
                by being geese.

And does the wolf still pace the shore.
Still pace, still pace, still pace, still pace.
The shore how still.

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

we had climbed up the mountain
towards the colossal figure of the temple
now reduced to ruins

I am riding down Fifth Avenue on a bus. A woman touches my leg and speaks of forests. My need unfolds like a newborn’s limb, stiff and uncertain. She whispers close and I tremble as we reach my stop.

Yes these are mine

I carry them from shower to dreams

and sniff them in dark dawns