How rude!
The Bones of the World
churn, with vaster Rhythms
and sentences longer than our own.
Drape
those worldless forms with poorest leavery
and the Mind will sup happily
of a meal it would fain have foraged.
Possessed by Glacial time, however –
History’s sediment is turned, blank desertion.
Remember, then,
when next you would dine in Nature’s great hall of mirrors;
look beneath, grapple with the Bones,
and confound yourself not with the world you eat.
Every Monument a Marble Janus 