Man never is; yet here are men
who walk about on the skyline to fire
the edge of a disc into some precision,
making streams of blue sparks fall from their fingers
which burn whitely down upon a finite distance
lately bright as cold, a winter in being.
Man never is, but always is to be
and is to be superseded. A saffron crane arm
lifts out in benediction or to mean goodbye
over those who walk shining
around their circle in the sky.
The machine is docile. Competent, it does
not know about man fallen; claims no sin
in its origin; is neither wilful nor free
of this brilliant unnatural calm morning in July.
They are changing the way of my city.
5 - 11. 8. 66
The skyline is not what it was. Nor are we.