Squeezing the private sadness until words
pearl round it, and all images become
the private sadness and the life; and a name
blood.  Or flowering like a bride towards
the object, amorous of image, a home:
giving oneself to symbols; feeding myths.

There is one house beyond opposing paths.
Pelican or vampire is the same.

Only by going in and not around;
pulsing with stone's cold veins; duck's world,
	rock's world;
sifting the air as trees; long as the wind;
sucking the earth as wheat; become a field.
No myth will ever come to any good:
but biting the wasp's gentle apple; being blood.