Sights From Below

The exalted ironies of my suspect recession,

do serve to ennoble the tittering frame

that houses infinite sovereignty, in chains of repression

the all too solid coils that my grave eyes

work round and with due solemnity

strap fast to the vagaries of social grace--

In moments ennobled, that din and murmur

does not figure,

but whatever the ecstasy

I am bounded to the earth

and to troubles insincere and meddling,

the blights of soot that mar the dove

even as he never deigns to touch ground

for the very air is suffused

with dissipation and soot.

Oh, that these chanced objects,

sights of our rhetorical memory,

would sway so headily over our loves

that we, symbol for symbol,

would edify the scenes of our annunciation

with Pardoner's relics

and dubious keepsakes

and tossed idealizations--

For isn't it true

I'll ask your assent directly:

Haven't waxen wings made for shallow flights?