The Masque Within a Red House.

Bury the tar gum deep,

a child asleep on a silken chair

to listen,

its one fine leaf will grow,

not in a circle but in a coil.

It will not leave the cave

you've made,

but do not harm it.

Last night she embraced me.

My idol twinned her arms around me,

caught me, and pierced my ear,

and there a tiny book will grow

of a mythological culture

that was permanently lost,

its navel the horizon:

Personality may never be discarded.

A demon may live the fullest life

as a poor shoe,

a child asleep on a silken chair;

its one fine ear will grow.

O hear ye, Eumenides!

Your must knot hunt the Snark,

but take the rabbit from the briar

to oak the fuel Saussure. 

Its fire will take no tea:

Cum pascit pascitur, 

et cum pascitur pascit;

even if they are written

in any language.

The strongest chair

for even the lightest shoe

must be built to fall apart

yet never crumble.

This demon Thalassa

is made of chalcanthum.