Whither
Modern
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
n verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
A golden dome has disappeared. A blue
One glimmers high with golden stars. The white
Ones dream of purity. Some domes as true
As glass are promised somewhere. In a night
Of Venice other shrines appear to be
Suspended, floating, disappearing in
A seer’s fog. Beneath them is a quay
Receiving tesserae to dress the skin
Of holy ceiling space. Some domes are made
For cool projection of the heavens on
An inner roof, the universe surveyed
By specks of light before a sinful dawn.
..Our sky is like a skull-shaped loft. Our zone
….Is not of gold but only unsafe bone.