  They have carved a battle Across your hard face: Transfigured conflict, Lines like suspended lances. Your voice must be the uneven Clink of the last carver’s chisel. Your soul must be a pious subterfuge Squinting its admiring eyes At the lifeless battle lining your face.... Middle aged vaudeville conductor, With a hunted leanness on your body, Sometimes the swing of your baton Sways with a brooding patience That violates your ended face. Two acrobats appear, With their automaton bows. Their unlit motion does not strike The air into a hugging flame. They are blue and orange corpses Whirled in a sacrilegious festival. They vividly resemble The chiseled battle that grips This lean conductor’s face: Motion without life, And life that holds no motion! |
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