And yeah.
XXXIII.
Imagine yourself in a soap-apple,
squished in its world buttonhole,
dappled with its tinctured principal.
Its branches peopled with quetzals, eagle,
and Christianly owl.
How will you make your way back from that
to the Valley of Anahuac?
You're singing there today, but even the trace
of your jingle this way is marked
by a tingle of being somewhat unaware.
You are born there, shine there.
And somehow your mind there is caught still
in the cavernous, winding impersonal grapple
of the soap-apple that ensanguines there.