suspended launch
                                                                          in the steam flotilla,
an intellect not cold,
                                        rather, all fire,
                                                                      all sensate piston
and receptive insight,
                                          the tough, collected
of desire no
                         concrete obstacle
                                                             to digging quite a trench.
Solemn consultants muttering in their beards
huddle together, arms heavy on shoulders,
once again landing terminally on time
as though a map could serve without its legend.
Climbing up
                          from the pipe,
                                                        several soft gnarls
of burning longcut
                                    embody either
                                                                  his othermindedness—
or some nuance
                                of the letter just read,
                                                                          a sigh inscribed in silence.
In several acute
                                   phrases, inference
                                                                          like a hooded falcon
interrupts decipherment
                                               by giving a velvet
                                                                                   shake of its wings.
Seeing that the pivotal resolution hangs
fire among sunset October branches,
little wonder if their leaves fall silent.
When she marches bareheaded into the gale,
we hold our thumbs for her, as for any militant
Winged Victory might claim she never met.
One revolving searchlight
                                                   has aimed strong
                                                                                      surgical probes
into mostly avoided
                                       pockets of internity
                                                                             while a longstanding
conflict of instincts
                                    scores its frustration
                                                                             and struggles wordward.
You’ll lift your head and see a flight of stairs
conclude at a granite wall, or a translucent
window let signal flares slip through where patches
of strategic whitewash have peeled away:
but how to withstand detonations of the uncanny?
If nothing is,
                          except on a human
                                                                scale, verifiable,
received arguments
                                        court blank confusion.
                                                                                    One by one
the emigrants walked
                                          through a wide pool
                                                                                  of spilled gilt,
                    and not yet told
                                                    their Nikes had unreeled
a trail, a record,
                                dual, intricately patterned,
                                                                                     of golden footprints.