Nothing happens. The sea wanders. The air,
Rich with inertia, hovers on clear wings.
And when the mockingbird derisive sings,
“Your country is not here!” I hardly care.
Loneliness would be exile anywhere.
Here, life is miniature; made up of things
Embroidered on a screen; and the sun flings
An arm around the sea and keeps it there.
But the goats never know when it is hot;
I hear them clatter down the steep ravine—
They are shod with meteors. The lava-scars
Tinkle and glitter to feel them. They are not
Like any others I have ever seen.
They are haughty, knowing their little hoofs are stars.
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