...Maybe There's No Obligation, Now,...

703

This scheming island
pulses with rifles
War ears erect to battles
over vegetables
riverboats full of tourists
watching from the water
send milk from the homeland
to prisoners on the quay.

In simple time
plantations reap quantities of oranges
for passengers on railways
to catch along the way.
The weedbeds and the ministries
of doubtful education hatch
schemes of acquisition
and holy conjunction to
find a method of going on
another day.

704

A fee for sleeping is
charged to all meditators, to
all you grazers who believe in
axioms, to those whose reason,
once so practiced, so golden, so
inexhaustible

Now lost to them.

705

We fear the infinitesimal
the land of lost sleep
where dreams may be kept
like any old sandglass
in a triangular box,
where the game is the same
everyday and I
(of the Capital Eye)
cheat the senders of messages
because I know the
land of the receivers
is now empty.