Home from Guatemala, back at the Waldorf. 
This arrival in the wild country of the soul, 
All approaches gone, being completely there, 
Where the wild poem is a substitute 
For the woman one loves or ought to love, 
One wild rhapsody a fake for another. 

You touch the hotel the way you touch moonlight 
Or sunlight and you hum and the orchestra 
Hums and you say "The world in a verse, 

A generation sealed, men remoter than mountains, 
Women invisible in music and motion and color," 
After that alien, point-blank, green and actual Guatemala.


 = Doug Ross