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Oh Incas of memoryWe have come to get gold, not till soil like peasants,said the young Cortes.(pest-ridden illiteratestrampUng effete,decadent, dying—who said?—cultures)Incas of memory, dearer by far than rooms of goldSanta Maria . . .Pinta . . .Nina . . .Flashing meteors.Compass all awry . . .The vast plains of the Sargasso: mutiny.Thensweetness of morning, like Andalusian April—sea-birds,low-lying cloud,temperate breezes andonly the nightingale wanting . . .Compass bewitched,monsters above and below—thendog-roses, sodden in the sea—but living . . .Oh lost and found.Oh damned and reprieved.Goblin sailors ransomed on the rim of the world.America not discovered,but recovered:China?Who the hell saidanything about China?To have cut the line and ventured forth was more than enoughThe silence between,6 ^^^^E^LY, No. 1, MARCH. 1968