I hear the rheumatic breathing
and the roaring grumble of her digestive
as she assimilates the farm-spirit of the
and the academic
with the equanimity of a weed-eater.
She trades illusions for dreams
brilliant busy impersonal hollow illusions
for soft innocent pastel intimate dreams;
hold those dreams hidden
tight to their bosom
she is indefatigable and will eventually
dreams from even the most
of such naïfs.
Who am I to deny the inevitability
of this blast furnace which reduces
all metamorphic and crystalline structures
to its most
forever separating fertile aggregates
of our heritage.
Who am I who drives bravely down this artery
in the middle of the morning madness
into the heart of this beast
preserve my provisional anonymity
least I be
squashed out-of hand.
- Paul Malécot