Transitional Poem
65
No promise for proprietors. I from farCame, and passing saw something oracular.Put down the tripod here.
I stretched a line from pole to poleTo hang my paper lanterns on. Poor soul,By such a metaphysical conceitThinking to make ends meet!This line, spun from the blind heart—What could it do but prove the poles apart?More expert now, I twist the dials, catchElectric hints, curt omens suchAs may be heard by one tapping the airThat belts an ambiguous sphere.Put down the tripod here.
This is the interregnum of my year;All spring except the leaf is here,All winter but the cold.Bandage of snow for the first time unrolledLays bare the wounds given when any fateAnd most men's company could humiliate:Sterilized now; yet still they prickAnd pulse beneath the skin, moving me likeAn engine driven onBy sparks of its own combustion.There are going to be some changes made to-day.
