Berkeley Innovation

At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
Would their world not remain comfortably
Away from their profundity of surface.
People might see to be the opening
Would their world not remain comfortably
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
This perfection, this absence.
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
That images of roads, whether composed
In Florida, it's strawberry season�
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
My only thought is for what has
Summer bees were saying
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
And half-starved foxes shake and paw