It’s true in life things happen once.
Sparrows quip like flat stones
skipping on the bay. Walter Pater wrote

that beauty insinuates as rhyme, songs
turning words into pictures.
Already it is tomorrow, or

two hundred years ago.
All possible relation
precedes us as a realm.

Though there is no fluctuation
in the strength of this compliment,
alienated bitterness is now

our industrial ivory tower.
Fear is the new money.
In secret times arithmetic

perfectly symbolized the sun—
the romance of train travel,
lakeside lemon-cake carousels

unevenly revolving on pins.
Applying the rule of proportionality
to analogical judgement, still

the swallow calls
across spotted water, singing

                             A la lay—