Yesterday, I sat at Joseph Campbell's desk, tracing the deep grains of its dark wood.
A scholar whose soul was his erudition, "from Israel to Black Elk...what does all this
tell us of the words of myths? Obviously, it calls for some revisions."

Campbell drove his thoughts over the yellow pad
like Helios hurling his chariot across the very sky
     he lights.

"No more horizons," Campbell wrote," citing Black Elk, in which the Lakota shaman
had a vision of "the central mountain of the world, the highest place." The seer said:
"The central mountain is everywhere."

Thus, the line tells no story; it serves no image. The line itself is
the image, from the low to the high, in the way in which it sings.