Screaming star, oh coming tears, stay sweet near the sea, oh stay—
(red as the most useful arrow...),
The reef cuts, the skin boils, the fern wilts, the pyramid heaps,
Oh engine of firsts, where is my soul?
Speak! (In your fires, in your tugs),
A set of vague lips tends not to burnish this ice!
& what am I to do with these unreal dusks?
Lions are singing a rumblesong!
Rough purrs of excellence, those pearl-hewn coaches await!
How have you bent so knowingly, and wasted understanding's flowing?
Don of your crises, I have been your lettered mule,
and would you burn all openness if you could?
Whose words could we say are a God's
O ambient enemy of green?


Photograph by Ferroggraro