Aug 212011
 
The whole stale globe is fixed 
And finished.  No spastic blanks 

Fringe or freak our maps.
All we had desired, in one 

Cloudy shell is clamped, a cataract
Eye clubbed by interior damps.

Round and round a blue wash basin rolls
The marble of our wants, our soul.

How, inside this stormy island shell,
Dare we pip a pearl?

Discovery but brushes back the curls
From brooding brow's proscenium to Hell.

The conquistador's poise or plastic pose 
Can but woodenly suppose our more

Consummate imaginings of rose. 

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