By ordinary wind
and percussion instruments
and a granite will
we broke out of the romantic
gravitational field.
The idea
was to reach sui generis ,
a state of random mass
above sensitivity.

Then cymbals crashed
and America cowered . . .
girders ground
against each other . . .
but it was spared
and massive bulkheads rammed
and groaned . . .
inevitable, once heard.

The smaller sounds drifted
aimlessly like fish
and nudged . . .
creaking winches,
ratchets
senseless
clap clap clap
then darted from the shark.

But after that we heard cowbells
and knew we were not far from a meadow
and had our legs
and smell yet
and could still remember.
A jazz trombone

Was that memory
or something out there
putting on a black face
and blowing " Haw Haw " ?
We were afraid

I think there was a trumpet too
but it was brief,
a mere scarf.
And a triangle,
very delicate.

Again we heard a crash like before Genesis
of portent without soul
and America cringed,
expecting to be shattered.
And from far off
screaming, a fire siren
bore down on us
on a stage street. . . .
a fiasco.

Then a tugboat plying
space was heard
Then nothing.
We waited
despondent
wrung out.

Suddenly we heard a flute playing,
aloft lovely
a plutonium I
sweet and limpid
and knew we were still in romantic gravity.
But girders ground against each other
and America wept.