Of taxicabs and radios,
Mortality's parade crowned with neon and chrome-
As if we were beasts evolving toward a sentence
That breaks and disperses before we arrive
At the city we promised to build.
THE LITTLE BOY WHO FELL
The little boy who fell into the well
Knows not the darkening measure
Scaling the moss-fed rocks to a future
Neither the President nor Pope foretell .
The helicopter carrying the head
Of state whirs round a space, obscure
By day, that casts up silver coins and stars
The little boy, until his falling, counted,
Wondering, wide awake in bed,
How many and how far they are that fall,
Whistling like spinning tops until
They blur into their speed
Before they lean and teeter,
Nodding the way grandmama does as she falls
Fast asleep in her chair.
He was pulled from a dream by the bells
This morning, remembering the murmur,
Mother murmured, lives inside a chamber
Of his heart-how he hears his heartbeat beat
Like a cricket caught
And shuts his eyes tight to concentrate
His fear into a creature
Whose limbs he smashes when they sprout
Sharp shards of ice greener
