California From England
The pastel Ovid, limping toward Rome to find the scrolls remaindered, the lover in a new X-rated number, and even the emperor no longer dispensing the physic of his anger, pleads for lost worlds with the etiquette of strangers. Returning can never recover a luster, oyster-lit hills competing with sunset or sad crowds of palms razoring noon air. Dreams in the rough sleep of exile are clawed by foreign rooks, infections like accent or pale stamps defaced with the queen’s young profile. Ignorance itches worse than betrayal. The traveler is absent from all lands equally, discovering only scenes unequal to his necessity: the seals we heard inhabited the rocks that, for us, were barren.
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