Not a clear eye, the milky whey
The past is puréed on the lawn, everywhere windrows of trash
So what if you’ve drawn a zigzag from Four score to Score Four
to the number of hairs on your head: Petty egg burst
The night the manna ash fell, I dreamt you’d won the argument
with your flashing smile
Who cares if you can polish an apple or repair blind stelae
The wind has an eye and it’s spooling light