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Transitional Poem
I fell once more under the shadow of my Sphinx.The aimlessness of buttercup and beetleSo pestered me, I would have cried surrenderTo the fossil certitudes of Tom, Dick, and Harry,Had I known how or believed that such a surrenderCould fashion aught but a dead Sphinx from the live Sphinx. Later we lit a fire, and the hedge of darkness—Garnished with not a nightingale nor a glow-worm—Sprang up like the beanstalk by which our Jack aspired once.Then, though each star seemed little as a glow-wormPerched on Leviathan's flank, and equally terribleMy tenure of this plateau that sloped on all sidesInto annihilation—yet was I lord ofSomething: for, seeing the fall of a burnt-out faggotMake all the night sag down, I became lord ofLight's interplay—stoker of an old parable.
4
Come up, Methuselah,You doddering superman!Give me an instant realizedAnd I'll outdo your span.
In that one moment of eveningWhen roses are most red
