I plunge into the night—sounds of wings, rustling,
                           and leaves, dripping into dust’s shower.

Night’s ending, time’s tearing.
   And the cross streets fuse together in twisted images.

If I stretched my arms out quietly, I’d become a living cross.

   The girl’s dark hair—
   hoarfrosted, powerless, luxuriant.

And once again we dug up the clear-edged
   dream-, or ice-quarry,

Yellow apple
star inside the apple
seed star     quiet

A Coney Island of Las Vegas styles,
Caleta lies all Danae to the sun; 
Naked as greed, careless of voyeur smiles... 

On the yellow walls of my patio
Five lizards lurk like sin, waiting for flies—
Women want love. In gay Acapulco

His cleaned-out body—and laid before it
a thousand of bread, beer, oxen, fowl,
and every good thing. His gratitude

All this rain in the place where it rarely rains.
Eyes trained on the sky as if for smoke,
as if for news of the next doddering pope.