Two hours
Until the world
Like an irritable dragonfly,

Accepts the wind
With quickly beating wings
And moves off to find

A place in the sun.
Let the talkers fix their tongues,
Specimens pinned

To a Latin name,
And the tradesmen jingle
The coins in their third-

World pockets. Never
The goblet to suffer the blood,
Never the earth to entwine

The sky, never the eager
Christian man to transubstantiate
His friends and lovers,

Never the story we have told
And are still telling with words
Like satellites on re-entry.

A Euclid thief lingers
In our prayers
And testemonial dreams,

When the sink is full
Of our pulp, like a man
Swallowing several church bells.

At the stroke of freedom,
Let us ring into the hollows
Of our illucid futures

And shift our weight
Uncomfortably out
Into the summer furnace

That growls in the shadows,
Versatile and sterile,
That we have yet to see.

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