IV (WIP, R2)

O matrona dona, traversez le corps: the travesty of the body
Was in mind, in the bells, already floating
Up so many streams of Labrador red, the ravished head
Of Eurydice’s muse. Ephebe, Galatean, celestial
Admiral, tell us your name: the wind
Held that, and capered by caravels, the branches knew it
But could not say. In the forest, cool, were the pillars
Of bees, and more than bees: the beginning of song,
Past capes and admirals, sailed on the savage
Of Evergreen reds, meridians where the latitudes talk. Desirous capes,

Straits, we beg sagittiferous wind, we beg clouds, we beg storms –
Gales; nightingale moons, something swoons
In the unfolding air, gravity’s crystals half there,
Half obscure in the arc of the twilight.
If the storm-shafts penetrate our ships, we beg a sinking,
Sloping into the salt, a tilting, these gravitations of
Celestial will. Everything is made, Muse:
The cloaks are wearing twilight, your significant gifts are descending,
The sky is slopping and slavering on the prow:
So we ask foaming will, Muse, foaming good will.

IV (WIP)

O matrona dona, traversez le corps: the travesty of the body
Was in mind, in the bells, already floating
Up so many streams of Labrador red, the ravished head
Of Eurydice’s muse. Ephebe, Galatean, celestial
Admiral, tell us your name: the wind
Held that, and capered by caravels, the branches knew it
But could not say. In the forest, cool, were the pillars
Of bees, and more than bees: the beginning of song,
Past capes and admirals, sailed on the savage
Of Evergreen reds, meridians where the latitudes talk: dire capes,
Grim straits, we beg sagittiferous wind, we beg clouds, and storms --
Gales; we beg nightingale moons and the crystals of twilight,
We beg something swoons the unfolding of air, half there,
Half obscure in the arc of the twilight.
If the storm-shafts penetrate our ships, we beg a sinking,
Sloping into the salt, a tilting, these gravitations of
Celestial will. Everything is made, Muse:
The cloaks are wearing twilight, your significant gifts are descending,
The sky is slopping and slavering on the prow:
We ask foam -- good will, Muse, foaming good will.