It is there
a taste of machine
in my earth-rooted tongue
that although I am drenched
in phantasmagoria
my center is solid like
the bolt of physical law
it is there
a host of onerous mechanisms
LURKING
behind the quiet gleam
of motion
that in the splintered sky
of the treetops
a fabulous realm of myth, sleep
and transience is reposing
like the heavy fingers of god
but today
rocks are in my lungs
being ground for
the castles of math
and strategy
a player taken out
of the bench of chimera
to supply the field
with an extra glove of fact
today the world is no longer my metaphor
but the unalienable stage for
man’s work.
Beyond Language 
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