At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.

Tiresias knew one reality,
Then two.
Seeing survival's struggle
He struck,
And was thoroughly
Transformed,
Understanding the other's
Mysteries,
Becoming in one self both
Her and him.
Through this wholeness
Seeing
Realities still to come.