The century roar is a desert carrying
too much away, the plane skids off
with an easy hopeless departure.
The music, that it should
leave, is far down
in the mind
just as if the years were part of the
same sound, prolonged into the latent
action of the heart.
That is more: there
affection will shoot it up
like a crazed pilot. The desert
is a social and undedicated expanse, since
what else there is counts as merest propaganda.
The heart is a changed
petromorph, making
pressure a social
intelligence: essential news
or present fact
over the whole distance back
and further, away.
Or could be thus, as water
is the first social fluency
in any desert: the cistern
comes later and is an inducement of false power.
Which makes the thinning sorrow of flight
the last disjunction, of the heart: that
news is the person, and love
the shape of his compulsion
in the musical phrase,
nearly but not
yet back, into
the remotest
past.
Of which the heart is capable and will journey
over any desert and through the air, making
the turn and stop undreamed of:
love is, always, the
flight back
to where
we are.