Will they occur,
These people with torso of steel
Winged elbows and eyeholes
 
Awaiting masses
Of cloud to give them expression,
These super—people! –
And my baby a nail
Driven, driven in.
He shrieks in his grease
 
Bones nosing for distance.
And I, nearly extinct,
His three teeth cutting
 
Themselves on my thumb—
And the star,
The old story.
 
In the lane I meet sheep and wagons,
Red earth, motherly blood.
O You who eat
 
People like light rays, leave
This one
Mirror safe, unredeemed
 
By the dove’s annihilation,
The glory
The power, the glory.

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