....

I thought sufficiency was there to make my own
its curt claims scattering. The pure audience.
Damn the cuttle-screwed satisficing of the loose gums.
All of them have their own heals and their own harms.
We could walk or we could waltz through the forums.
Where blessings are accorded. Little rays of soft light
Pour from the bar, and upon it sits an angel. It makes
Tired the bravery of the Festival’s old-time attempt
At citizenry. It is precise enough to be scared and scare.
Ribbons flow from its feet & the muffled thump of primaries
Against veneer is hard to bear. There is glass all upon its face
but it carries no spear, and its toes are wet with ice
which up-ended bucket has spilt cubes clear to the floor
& they melt everywhere bar the curious figure
and its costive waters. & its beautiful reservoir.