Sailing Off the Rock
Today the are
Of things, mere are,
Be-drubs us, drubs us drab:
A thrusting spile splits this from that,
The air unbreathable . . .
These shacks attached by noon
Lack meaning in a butcher’s glare;
By their own shadows botched,
From were to will-have-been
They drift in are.
A blunt prow snorts and snores;
What impresario bids be
Such shrunkeness?
Says yes to it, yes yes, continually,
All else, all otherwise, ignores?
