Page 41 of Collected Poems

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chant of saber-tooth termites

raising in the pith of its wood

a white-bellied stalagmite

Where does a runner go

whose oily grip drops

the baton handed by the faithful one

in a hard, merciless race? Or

the priestly elder who barters

for the curio collector's head

of tobacco the holy staff

of his people?

Let them try the land

where the sea retreats

Let them try the land

where the sea retreats

We Laughed at Him

We laughed at him our

hungry-eyed fool-man with itching

fingers who would see farther

than all. We called him

visionary missionary revolutionary

and, you know, all the other

naries that plague the peace, but

nothing would deter him.

With his own nails he cut

his eyes, scraped the crust

> over them peeled off his priceless

patina of rest and the dormant

fury of his dammed pond

broke into a cataract

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