Fall you will, but rise you must.
form as a circle, as a gift
Equal to what the gray, gay glasses beckoned to:
The empty stretches of the empty lots, clue
To the damage done by poetry left to drift,
As it scatted
in resplendent high spec gloss,
His desk, more moan than groan, was sewn
And gathered into the artifice of eternity—as if a poem
The sun was in, could no longer be a source
For truth. It doesn’t matter, man, the good
Phoebus is the moonlight too, and among
the forms it forms nothing that it couldn’t outgun
Or out-glow where it was. Nothing could.