Where did all the beautiful mirrors go?
the beautiful neck of that tall, well-educated horse,
that layer of numberlike, skyblue snow,
and the canto which, translated from the original Norse,
reads: ‘cat-tongue clicking, conker-fleshed hotel,
the spewed wasp-speak of a transcendental
movie-screen lady, the enormity of the bell
in the tininess of the plaza, O the semi-dental
jargon of the utterly heartbroken scientist
standing, hands as glued to the bridge
as a semi-naked, shiny-lipped chick to a fantasist.’
Before it melts, the courage
to crackle in rugby fields
will huddle like Roman footsoldiers under rectangular shields.
by Col. Baldwüllz