CANTO 36 The farther we progress

 

The farther we progress in retrogress

the more she weaves a furry comforter of

preconceptions.

Each cantilever we sing multiplies the structure’s arty-tectural flaws.

We bog down in the baggage of nostalgia for the distance just uncovered.

The ultra-lights criss-cross a pellucid sky

while a jet milk-runs higher up. This late

in July the air is cool after morning showers,

without the death’s little Nell that August

brings when the whole show will start to fold—

it’s called harvest.

(The air is so still, the lucid so pell, that we murmur in the hush,

we say "I can hear a thousand preconceptions throng.")

In the hush like ripening corn

the mourning dove coos its regrets

at leaving us behind.

Now a light plane approaches

with its propeller screwing

such clear air

carving out categories which motor down

into the baggage depot of the brain, muscle twitch

and attention switch:

Micro-computers with chiclet keyboards

and improved metaphysical graphics.

Tax-deferred appliances fill with outdated shades

of house paint approved by the World Trade Organization.

Cartons of lipo-proteins sandwich between hamburgers

pureed by experimental particle bean weapons.

Government-backed rebels finaced by high-interest

mortgage payments scan Mork and Mindy reruns

for evidence of subversive ESP.

All these data, and one more datum:

you can have tons more data if you order now and allow

six to eight weeks for delivery, all at an incredibly

high emotional price. All these data clutter the floor

and must be jettisoned if ever we’re going to join the ultra-lights.

The tent stands firm

in air so still

tidbits dropped by chewing insects

tic on the canvas roof.

Data oozes out of the flaps.