October 23, 2009

BLAKEAN

The substance spoils.
The intangible stays fixed
In everlasting contradiction fresh
At the far end of the trombone plunging.

He leaps upon you like stain;
But no one cares about a second-hand man.
When man is nature and nature is man
Where is man who is man when nature is nature
To push it back
Into our sight, our hands?