As if his poetry spread extraordinary wings
That shed bright vainglorious feathers
During a heedless dash up vast empty
Vocabularies
O desperate happy sprint
Through infinitely
indexed and ordered
Winds unimpressed by such a spunky fool
Indifferent
to the foolish pluck of such
A
reckless and weak-pinioned poet
All
debonair and devil-may-care yet
When
he gets where he is going what
Does
this two-bit sonneteer do but steal
The
bone-heavy syntax of the moon
A
word-chain cold and hard as fact
And
see him smiling thinly as he falls
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