from A Dearth of Prose
There were the valleys of the sky
somewhat blue under July
where, for some piece of an unseen
the seraphs had all died.
Carted, and threw they all they had
carted away in their own sense
defying the omnipotence
for an unbridled field.
There were the mountains of the air
out humming some discordant tune
of hieroglyphic wanderings
upon a dead man's tomb.
Bounded, they freely bounded there
away from the unbounded air
of an imposéd tyranny
imposing banquet fare.
These are the starings of the sun
where golden boys are dead and done,
whose downstream nest is ringed with gold,
who cry, 'I thought these clouds would hold!'