Ode to the Makers
O you beautiful transmigrants!
Sewn to words like a deleterious cloth.
A wild, swaying passion seizes the mind
and the pen scribbles rampant.
O you beautiful transmigrants!
Effigies of former ages cast
in quantum flesh.
Your busts will loom o'er
the atom-blasted waste.
O you beautiful transmigrants!
Flare in worship sufficient
to sunder and remake the soul.
Dark chasms are yours,
and the inhabitants therein.
O sweet poetry! The curving rhyme
laps up the tail's singularity
and all is distraught
buffeted by the winds of Apollo.
O sweet suit of skin
a humming carapace of molecules
to execute animacy.
The act of every hand
and the word of every tongue
are preserved in the poet's eye.
O darling transmigrants!
The madmen raving at anthropomorphic
marble
the magician hot with stave and will
the wail of Grecian harps
regurgitating up the throat of time.
Great Pan calls, and I must answer.
O you beautiful transmigrants,
Drunk on strange wine
and fed on queer dishes
gorged on the weird milk
of the Muse –
O darling transmigrants!
Let thy flow be my pulse.
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