Of aerodynamics,
thermal currents,
or propulsion and gravity,
what does a bird know?
...
That shed was our Notre Dame,
and in this cathedral we celebrated our childhood,
hammering straight the bent nails of life,
humming There is a Green Hill far Away.
...
The Great Sea of our Earth,
swelling white and sighing blue,
with me, worshipful on the bleached bare dune
under the Greatest Sun of our Heaven,
...
We are dying together even as we live apart.
The hitching red-tide, rides the hunching wave,
like Death hidden in each life.
...
Mountains,
(unlike rivers) ,
are serenely quiet and thoughtful places.
...
The Baths are smoothly curved, as cool as cream,
like deeply dimpled virgins of vestal antiquity.
Outside lies the ceramic city, coldly glazed and sharply tiled,
menaced in the emptiness by gladiator-gangsters,
...
A jumble up fresco,
all beasts, bosoms and cloven hooves
together in a cloudless sky,
twisting in ecstasy.
...
Authenticity is the hooked bill of the vulture,
the hunched over, crooked pose,
wings stiffened to lunge at the fetid carrion.
...
Díscontent is the man in a plaster caste,
bench-watching runners passing in the park.
Complaining to all, of his misfortune,
as the tanned athletes exercise and stride out,
...