Fermata

All exiled from their own temples.
The prosecutors of themselves. Hear them
outside the newspaper press
repeating what they read while claiming
novel vision. Both ghost and machine
empty. Flesh the exception.
One way out. Cannot fill
the empty thing. Sputtering.
Pleasure not even temporary.
The path thin along the swamp
banks. Thick ecstasy of insect
swells fill the air with song
at all sides. Mute fear
a circle that surrounds each
footstep. Stand still long
enough. The song returns.


Also:

Geoffrey's Walt Whitman (on the fore) Weeping on a Montrosian Doorstep