I slept in Circe’s ingle. Unburied, unwept,
unwrapped in sepulchre. These many
crowded about me, with shouting. & in
the water, the almond-white swimmers.
Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green
cool light. The sunlight glitters, glitters
atop forked branch-tips, flaming as if
with lotus, the bride awaiting the god’s
touch. & beneath the jazz a cortex, a
stiffness or stillness. The angle almost
imperceptible, the calm field, the
grass quiet. The house a shade too solid,
a dryness calling for death, knocking at
empty rooms, seeking for buried beauty.
Mark Young, 2018
The Cantos, by Ezra Pound