It is a world cleft like the sea. The eyeball
Naked out of reality, wheedling the forever,
Spins change from the mesh of sameness, rolls forward
In a trek from Egypt, past pictures on the waves,
Images countermingling into each other, tradition.
The red sea towers in glass thunderheads overhead,
Glass twilights rear lowering in their rage,
While the wrist on the reins of the imperiled fact
Whips up its intention on the straight endless street
Onward, next moments lightly skidding into nowhere.
The sea gods are swimming in the walls of water,
A mardi gras of grimaces crowded on the state,
Pandemonium thinned to whispers washes the parade
Of the individual on his chariot racing his fate,
The harpies of the past following after like seagulls.
In the direction toward event, on the sands
Of universal lees, through tomorrow’s empty front
He plunges, clouds at the heels foaming into shapes
Of wolves, chimeras are born of that speed;
The dust of difference drives between generations.
The driver wears the steel jail of God’s muzzle
But his face is helmeted by his misty childhood
And the walls of standing water quiver and shake
The finest negation like an undersea lighting—
On, on-as the implicit end sits with the driver.
It is a race under the penalties of jelling walls
Doing their own writing, reared entrails of the depth,
Proportion escapes the deep glove of the senses,
And black bushes of sound beat about on the air,
Time is a snarl and festival of invisible flames.
It is a sea divided like the world. The survivor
Fleeing from flight heads for the open-armed later
Between the buildings of the wavering great waters,
The light of sky sprouts windows and brimstone flowers
Showering the runaway on the roadbed between storms.
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