I do not make phone calls, talk to anyone,
      let alone write. Even this letter
is mailed reluctantly. I move without cause,

The traveler struggles through a wood. He is lost.
The traveler is at home. He never left.
He seeks his way on the conflicting trails,

It is hard to think of the people of Thebes
as being fortunate (so much time has gone by),
but they possessed a machine of exact measure:

One moment the sky is its usual dark,
Dimensionless self, and the next, with a double burst—
Two spreading spheres of radiance, phosphor

You dismiss the tiny, protesting fraction
back home, claim you've learned a nation

and its customs, people, mores. Did you and your

Eugene would say, "Someone died . Time to redecorate."
Everything we owned was secondhand.
We needed to move. We were running out of space.

Winter was the ravaging in the scarified
Ghost garden, a freak of letters crossing down a rare

Path bleak with poplars. The yew were a crewel

A hears by chance a familiar name, and the name solves a 
      riddle of the past. 
B, in love with A, receives an unsigned letter in which the 

Neither an invalid aunt who had been asked to care for a
                                                                                              sister’s
little girl, to fill the dead sister’s place, nor the child herself

. . . telling those who swarm around him his desire
is that an appendage from each of them
fill, invade each of his orifices, —