I sing of domes and a muse, in simulation.
I saw the fields filled with the young and eager
Plants. Wheat, tawny corn and the occasional
Weed, that the roots of the crop beleaguer,
Hidden shoots of blue between the rows. Rich
Forever. That land is fixed there, still placid,
Muddy feet in the soil. I am that which
Belongs no more. Only a visitor avid,
And when I see – from the peaks of Nebo –
The omens of owls, and only prophecy
To uphold. Infinitive splits overthrow
Parthenon to Peter’s to Peoria Colony.
Past, unmoored from which we have excess