A View of the Harbor (1)

Coolly the fire of the drowning day
  skips from glass to glass across the bay;
time by time it measures our despair,
  note by note; as if it did not care.

Night follows: and then, across the night
  marches the fury of mercuric light,
the cranes twist into archaic dark,
  impassioned monsters in a monstrous park --

Free at last from pain of human need,
  our shadows capture our desires and feed;
power, humming in sixty-cycle trance
  teaches its dancing-masters how to dance;

fantastic poisons, housed in spheres of gloom
  rejoice and glower, moons and suns of doom,
iron growing from an iron ground
  a chorus fills the iron sky with sound -

Ah, but each hair in place, the gods of day
  dream of sad gold, and turn their heads away.

copyright © 1998 Gordon Fitch