With no real destination or landing-strip,
you walk under the folly of large buildings
planned by men whose great shadows are
gone and who will not return to us
from the inextricable webs of stars
or the black interstices that yawn between them.
But not everyone realises this. You want,
if you can, to evade the judas-kiss
that simultaneously proffers and pockets
the promise of rising above it all,
(I mean the low interpretation of things,)
like the limited view from wide autumn fields
on afternoons so long it seems like no end is possible.
forgottenpoet 