"No air stirs, but the music steeps the center --
It is not the sea, but what floats over it."
- Louis Zukofsky [A-2]
An Other Song
The boys are exiled and generous. The boys have fallen and there is no ignoble gesture too paltry to sweep the errors. The boy is a phantasm of where the parting began fresh as a daisy then dirtied clouds of aphorisms. This boy turns outward in a company constantly or all arts the wind blows. Like and unlike, this one is a manufacturer; he unwalled porticoes in a child's shoring scale of colors. Like everything in America, the boy holds centuries of barbarism in his skin. Then the boy is an executive asset, a simple and smooth machine that cannot doubt nor quite muster indifference. Feed and be fat for no reason at all, this boy keeps a lock down on language, this boy is unaware of the deftness of magpies. "He hath a legion of angels." But don't wonder what martyrs our own offices have futured in a yesterday ceremony: for the next ten thousand years, imagine this book a standard equal to mastery, equine to the flatlands.