Gathering dust and seeds; we are in ceaseless search,
No end to harvests and spoils.
And which of us discerns the which within the boils
And running sores, the cries of asperges me from the pulpit perch,
The torque and tongue of pleasure, leisure, and devotion?
No one is truly surprised; all pay homage to a tale
Of futures in dimensions of despotic, disparate claims that fail
Within the present, adduce the tedious notions
Of the past to be prophesies of the wise,
and by extension the final rapture:
Nor time, nor reticent imagination, no natural declension defines
This earthly constant but simplicity in being here behind the line
That we dream sets boundaries to this world.
How often is it so that few perceive
the shadow of a monument’s fatuous pause;
Desperate souls find providence
in specious victory and salacious loss.