Simple intelligence of the thing, the gait
Of common sense and goodwill, hearts
And minds that hold not solely to the arts
Or sciences nor to the overweening good, the late
Great planetary frieze born of shibboleths allied;
The vicinity of sanity claims a corner
On anonymity and a former
Aphorism outspoken often but never really tried.
“Come, stay awhile!” they say, fingers on the trigger
Offering nothing less than what is guessed
About the world and, yes, he sees it at its best
Because it’s nothing less than what looks bigger
To anyone who’s never been there and has no history.
To the wise, simplicity; to the foolish, one more mystery.
Roses for longevity, yes! tokens of a former reign
And deep within their sacrifice reds and florist’s greens,
Are fragrances of time and place from passing scenes
Of nuance, puddles deposited from accidents and incidental rains,
And that was yesterday; tomorrow, a torrent drowning visions—
Foundlings of future stories—deliverance in blessings saved
For half a century and more, prescient tokens, brave,
Benign and lacking only guile to cut the ribbons
Of what’s left of reticence. There are dangers in the cellophane.
Please! If this then that; if inertia, stimulation
Then, of course, the sum and price of abnegation;
What the Greeks call horses, the Trojans, lethal gains.
Intentions swept aside, abandoned, rapture’s secrecy
Is hidden virtue confused with common sense and mediocrity.