“THE BUILDING OF THE SKYSCRAPER
The steel worker on the girder
Learned not to look down, and does his work
And there are words we have learned
Not to look at,
Not to look for substance
Below them. But we are on the verge
Of vertigo.
There are words that mean nothing
But there is something to mean.
Not a declaration which is truth
But a thing
Which is. It is the business of the poet
‘To suffer the things of the world
And to speak them and himself out.’
O, the tree, growing from the sidewalk–
It has a little life, sprouting
Little green buds
Into the culture of the streets.
We look back
Three hundred years and see bare land.
And suffer vertigo.”
–George Oppen
under the floorboards · of the bird arpeggio
circular skin-stir · of depths pellucid
& always, in the air · obscure motors
many moods · of turquoise mindful
what so whelming · in the wheels' turn
plans plaintive · to be pleased with & done
when the mechas marched · yesterday in Sarajevo
in the Congo where cobalt · is fetched for our phones
or today in Sudan · is your twitter mute
we demur in a mecha · credit cards & car wash
summer-cooled · salvific in fireworks
pick menu items · muttered in the last breath
by those held otherwise · than high-rent humans
No comments:
Post a Comment