Talega
This is neither Montaigne’s tower,
Nor the shadowed hollow of Plato’s cave,
Only this:
The rose-colored dawn,
The richly slumped, briery hills,
The perfume of Prima Deschecha
Like Echo,
Mingled in the golden air.
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Face in the Crowd
Her smile is like a bobby-pin
Rigged for locks.
Her eyes are black,
So remarkably black,
They’re more like nostrils.
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Vista del Mar
Beneath the pepper tree
I dream of fennel wands
And the body of Pentheus
And T.E. Hulme’s
Millennia after,
Wrecked to savage pieces,
Like a curator had dropped
A late sculpture of Jacob Epstein’s
Onto the dark floor of his gallery.