The cindery and parched pilgrim wanders
into the glittered garden as his eyes
linger over its verdure; he ganders
on through the verger, seeking bright reprise:
He hears birds trine: solfa solfa dalí,
he smells orange blossoms unpeel themselves
to release their quixotic buttery
breeze; he takes out his bread and makes two halves:
The first half, he offers to the spirit;
the second he gives up to poetry:
"I abstain from nourishment to hear it,"
he says quickly, quietly, knowingly:
Content, he leans against the rotted root
and shoots both breads to the goose at his foot.