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Poem	The tall camels of the spirit Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the arid Sun. They are slow, proud, And move with a stilted stride To the land of sheer horizon, hunting Traherne's Sensible emptiness, there where the brain's lantern-slide Revels in vast returns. O connoisseurs of thirst, Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drink Of pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurst That shimmer on the brink Of absence; auras, lustres, And all shinings need to be shaped and borne. Think of those painted saints, capped by the early masters With bright, jauntily-worn Aureate plates, or even Merry-go-round rings. Turn, O turn From the fine sleights of the sand, from the long empty oven Where flames in flamings burn Back to the trees arrayed In bursts of glare, to the halo-dialing run Of the country creeks, and the hills' bracken tiaras made Gold in the sunken sun, Wisely watch for the sight Of the supernova burgeoning over the barn, Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit's right Oasis, light incarnate.
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