Will they occur,
These people with torsos of steel
Winged elbows and eyeholes
Awaiting masses
Of cloud to give them expression,
These super-people!—
And my baby a nail
Driven, driven in.
He shrieks in his grease
Bones nosing for distances.
And I, nearly extinct,
His three teeth cutting
Themselves on my thumb—
And the star,
The old story.
In the lane I meet sheep and wagons,
Red earth, motherly blood.
O You who eat
People like light rays, leave
This one
Mirror safe, unredeemed
By the dove’s annihilation,
The glory
The power, the glory.