Narcissus: Vision and Retrospect

The little-known bird of the inner eye.—
Consciousness assuming the shape of a heron.—
—Titles of Morris Graves.

I taste the bones of my enormous skull.—
—Lorca.

Still I kneel in the colorless
Pew, my skull in my hands,
One of those arid usual
Times of the end of prayer,
After the forms I made
Or learned my hope-
Ful and innocent years
(After the easy and
Almost indigenous Aves).