This could be Samothrace, 1440 B.C.E. This could be Thebes,
Yoknapatawpha, Mogadishu, Mars tomorrow. The space
between the bird and girl is four and none and seven.
Exactly palimpsest for nurses, argonauts, entrepreneurs--
the rack in the mold of the iron bowl is you and me.
What we might do were we listening to the Nile
bleed blue across the waste a salt sea feeds into islets.
Thrust of the scavenger's beak into the center
of civilizing soul, for mothers who run with dogs,
hissing babies back through doors to birth. Womb-rot
stories from idiot-savants like us with sunsick
overblown concern with craft, come car polish,
shoe creme, Pulitzer prize and Chinese watercress--
shoot a can of Kodak, then go suck a muffler.
Where will the water come from to feed the fish
who've slipped into this ivied sepulchre of city?
So we spin a nerve-root towards the reptile
gut that sanctions each respite speck of truth,
each solace gleaned a promise of wheatstraw grain
for those who work in charity, folksong, litany and prayer.
I sacrifice the origin of all ideals on Earth to give this girl a drink.

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