PROPHECY ON LETHE

ECHO, the beating of the tide, Infringes on the blond curved shore; Archaic weeds from sleep’s green side Bind skull and pelvis till the four Seasons of the blood are unified. Anonymous sweet carrion, Blind mammal floating on the stream Of depthless sound, completely one In the cinnamon-dark of no dream— A pod of silence, bursting when the sun Clings to the forehead, will surprise The gasping turtle and the leech With your strange brain blooming as it lies Abandoned to the bipeds on the beach; Your jelly-mouth and, crushed, your polyp eyes.