Because I often think about the dead I see the caissons rolling into view
As if leaving us is prologue
To returning—though I don’t see Christians
& there is no ascendant light
Above the Capitol
The streets of Washington glow with the precious inset stones of everywhere
& nowhere; there is a muted sound of dance music
& voices
A swarm of golden bees hums in the hive of the nation—non serviam is the sound
& then the storied dead come
From nothing through nothing
Their heads bent
& all that was inexpressible and distant grows inexpressible and near
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 