I offer you my forests and my street-cries
With hands of double-patience under the clock,
The antiseptic arguments and lies
Uttered before the flood, the submerged rock.
The sack of meal pierced by the handsome fencer,
The flowers dying for a great adventure.
I offer you the mysterious parable,
The mount of reason, the hero's glassy hymn,
The disquieting uproar of the obvious
Hate in the taproom, murder in the barn
The long experienced finger of the Gulf Stream,
The flying sense of glory in a failure's dream.
I offer you the bubble of free will,
The rarefied agony of forgotten places,
The green cadaver stirring to the moon's pull,
The cheerful butchery of raw amateur faces
Which, like the half-blind nags shipped off for food
Die, doubtless serving some higher good.
I offer you the Egyptian miracle,
The acrobat doing handsprings in the rain,
A touched up photograph in sepia
Of the future teasing the fibres of the brain
I offer you the seven league army boots he wears
Striding down the black funnel of the years.
I offer you a coral growth of cells,
A flash of lightning anchored in a carafe