There exists no excess, nor gross approximation:
Hornblowers blow; clocktowers earl; continents rind of robin
jaggering yawns gearlessly this nostalgic present-day
life not dumb, yet deafening as any empty, mistated case
before juries of jackrabbit hawks; smokestacks; rationales
mixed and poignantly glossed as wind upon a bell, a bell
upon a tendrilled brain swayed by its battery heart, by heart.
Love, what starves today? With science crude, an apple art
an orchard farmed upon a foddering of fires, in accidence--
And thy raucous heart is cobalt, lurid skies of upturned eggs
and angels broken of their desultory wings, ragged and jade
to be believed false, none more true. Thy inelemental
heat is a matte of porridge on cold lime bowls.
Thy hat is an indistinctive rose by thorn engaged.