DRILL SHED

The passive motion of sand

Is fuid geometry. Fir needles

Are the cool, select thoughts of madmen, and

Like a beggar the wind wheedles

Pine cones from the pines.

Inside there's no violence

Only the silence

Of an empty church;

Drilled zygotes shift

From foot to foot or lurch

With half-closed eyes against the guns

While the ack-eye shows

With delphic joy

The deeper things a dial sight knows;

Curious now

I marvel how

Lord Euclid's dream

Can stiffen a boy.