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?