The lace that lay around the bones of Danish kings

Rises at dawn in the grass of North Dakota;

The torture rack is the steering wheel of a Dodge,

And the Assyrian lions blaze above the soybean fields;

The last haven of Jehovah, down from the old heavens,

Hugs a sooty corner of the murdered pine;

Phoenician priests carrying Arabic numerals

Walk the earth dressed as bankers and hunters of bear,

And at night our sleep is invaded by stealthy diamonds.

The old jewels of Charlemagne fall in the flakes of snow

And lie drifted in the door of a pig-house,

Left abandoned all winter in a barnyard in Montana;

Our bodies are mingled among bills and relics

Like Bibles and carbines in the Sears Roebuck catalog;

Saxophones and gears fly together in the nightmares

Rising, like feathers, from the grave of Hannibal,

And tiny beetles, bright as Cadillacs, toil down

The long dusty roads into the mountains of South Dakota.

We meet men who travelled in Canada for Astor,

And also strange animals, men with wings of fur,

Cars that fly through the air with the faces of women,

Sheep come in hotels wearing crow feathers painted red,

Rocks climb up stairs balancing on the feet of birds,

Glasses of water swallow tiny cities with gypsy fairs,

Poor accountants awake one day with the paws of bears;

High in the beanplant that has grown from Carnegie’s dime,

Tiny loaves of bread with ears lie on the President’s table.