T.S. Eliot at One Hundred and Seven
This is the voice of the sandstorm, the voice of the unplayed hearts.
These are the endless children rolled over and over at nightfall.
This is the door to the house, lying by itself in the desert.
These are the patterns, lacelike and fixated, of the tributary veins.
That is a plinth, this is a next phenomenon.
Hammer and compass, hammer and astrolabe, hammer and theodolite.
These are the tools of rage as a temperature inversion.
This is a cat sunning itself, in the gutter between the sedate pages.
This is a Jew presuming, sweaty, a collection of skinned thumbs.
This is a space where the ornamented drop capital is missing.
That is Cape Fear, where the immigrants died on the picnic.
Birds in the night sky, answering each other over the ruthless nave.