Most of these poems are political, but all are ironic, and all intervene in our spaces for inhabiting time. Juxtapositions rule: native/alien, organic/synthetic, tragic/silly. But in every juxtaposition, no matter how many core items it contains, is a center that holds all items in orbit, and this center never really wants to hold, for all of Yeats’s yearnings. Since I teach about literature in ethnic studies courses, race is the site of the most tragic and most ridiculous juxtapositions.