By Samuel Chen
I saw upon the sea of formless shapes
The wreaths, the shrieks of rabble’s foresworn speech. Resounding echoes thundered through the cape;
Such sanded sines strained to trumpet a plea.
I pitched: sing of those forms, those sun-struck hearsed.
O you upward pointer, stern habiteur,
I have sorted your works; Ye mighty words,
The cause is reversed—insight’s heatless burst!
They would see seasmoke spiked the ashen fluff
Leavened—fleeced at the batik, wax light.
Out! out! diffuse philo, warble piece:
Da tta sume thearkcon fount ds pare fumes.
The dead cannot speak nor sing.
These razed scattershots of ink mean nothing.