The Man with the Blue Guitar XXX

From this I shall evolve a man.

This is his essence: the old fantoche

Hanging his shawl upon the wind.

Like something on the stage, puffed out.

His stmtting studied through centuries.

At last, in spite of his manner, his eye

A-cock at the cross-piece on a pole

Supporting heavy cables, slung

Through Oxidia, banal suburb.

One-half of all its installments paid.

Dew-dapper clapper-traps, blazing

From crasty stacks above machines.

Ecce, Oxidia is the seed

Dropped out of this amber-ember pod,

Oxidia is the soot of fire,

Oxidia is Olympia.