Nov 142013
Is there, in all this trash 
Of destinations, of places seen and places repeated
Like last year's film, last year's roses, last year's weather 
Anything for the spirit to extract, 
Extract and raise high and chant about? 
Any glitter to be picked from the waste of days, 
Any gold cloud built, any monument of twigs? 
Is there anything to whistle up from the repeated place, 
An eon's verdure or stone bouquet?           

In the repeated place, in a repeated time 
Must cold bouquets like fountains still renew 
And renew again their spilling blooms--
As in a height of speech in a vented space, 
As if death itself were only heightened speech 
In a vented space, or an old horn abandoned in a field, 
The hunt decayed, and the trumpet rusted 
That had brightened speech, and not quite out of sight? 
Is there any bower to be had?  Or only 
Repeated scenes stuffed with repeated speech 
Crisp adjectives must keep forever fresh--
Perpetual ecstasy, and still unfinished rooms, 
Rotted flowers racing back to bloom?

The pile of days like a pile of cards 
Tips one more card blankly onto a pile of blanks. 
Where is the change of hue or lilted modulation, 
The mutability in the rose that turns 
Ripely from rose-red to rose, to a few 
Green, wrecked leaves laying spattered in the path, 
Sparse litterings, wretched shrinkage 
Of a grander theme that pushed, and with the push 
Of birth had pushed, teasing lustrous harmonies 
Out of rocks that tinkled for a time, spritzed fresh, 
Lisping a damaged planet's name to space?

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