I
May roses bloom beside the Blomberg windows
And sun incarnadine the Kentile tile
And moon irradiate the gravel roof,
And on the door, Shaddai.
With barely perceptible horns in its dirty curls
May the satyr leer above the fireplace,
Antiquity of Brentanos with white eyes.
And on the door, Shaddai.
These abstract paintings praise the sheetrock walls,
That welded sculpture on the Steinway spear
The heavenly-hot, the air-conditioned air,
And on the door, Shaddai.
Over the entire Oxford English Dictionary
The Noh mask makes its faces to the black
Butterfly chair and the Drexel dining-area,
And on the door, Shaddai.
With intermediate micturations may
The General Electric icemaker make; the oven
Ring like Front! the bronze dishwasher roar,
And on the door, Shaddai.
The silent closets pile with hueful cloth
As the pearly Kohlers, readymade masterpieces,
Wait for the mirrors to preen the sole emotions,
And on the door, Shaddai.
The telephone in the bedroom ring or not ring
With a mind of its own that weaves a world of thought
As intricate as an Ottavia bedspread,
And on the door, Shaddai.
The Magnavox pick out Satie or groan
E. Power Biggs, which we turn off to get
News on the other black-and-white TV,
And on the door, Shaddai.
How many houses have we left behind,
Shipping our Allied artifacts ahead,
Bearing our personalities like gods,
And on the door, Shaddai.
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