"A World Without Objects Is A Sensible Emptiness"

		The tall camels of the spirit

	Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud

With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the arid

	Sun. They are slow, proud,

		And move with a stilted stride

	To the land of sheer horizon, hunting Traherne's

Sensible emptiness, there where the brain's lantern-slide

	Revels in vast returns.

		O connoisseurs of thirst,

	Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drink

Of pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurst

	That shimmer on the brink

		Of absense; auras, lustres,

	And all shinings need to be shaped and borne.

Think of those painted saints, capped by the early masters

	With bright, jauntily-worn

		Aureate plates, or even

	Merry-go-round rings. Turn, O turn

From the fine sleights of the sand, from the long empty oven

	Where flames in flamings burn

		Back to the trees arrayed

	In bursts of glare, to the halo-dialing run

Of the country creeks, and the hills' bracken tiaras made

	Gold in the sunken sun,

		Wisely watch for the sight

	Of the supernova burgeoning over the barn,

Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit's right

	Oasis, light incarnate.