La déesse des blés et des maïs
this anachronism, then,
this old-world princess, barefoot, slight,
this terra-cotta statuette,
face that would launch more ships than mine,
Minoan copper profile, fine
dazzle my eyes can never meet,
this is surely witch’s work.

gush, effusion, flimsy words ;
but must I openly admit
how much I fear this self-contained
unmoving mover, causal surd,
declining to be exorcised
by smug displacement to the past
or transmutation into verse ?