The wooden horse of myth stands on the air
arching a traitorous neck on roofed mankind:
the clocks are eyeballs round with mock despair
hunting in sanguine skylines of the mind:
and cherub faces fluttering in position,
dolls tethered by the nerves behind the curtain
and soldiers draped about the foiled ignition
portend an end momentously uncertain.
Meanwhile the white-haired meadows of the sea
sing in the fixtures of the music box:
the crowning glory of the verb to be
marches its fields of fire among the rocks-
while tides of flowers topple from the blood
and horseless hills affirm their mountainhood.
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