I spit an Antarctic blubber, And bubbles, which I take as penguins, Slide down the sides of the sink To join the flows of LA’s sewers. I am not one of Carlos’ men, but can Command the image before me of A fearful Jesuit in his own morning routine. Matins concluded, face washed, he will turn to his desk And there read an imperial missive whose Import will evict his fraternity from California. In calm repose He may meander to his goats, and, Milking, weep. Separating he and I are alone three centuries, And what rough beast ever thought that span Too wide to leap?