Sometimes if you’ve been in and out of them a lot for you
The clouds and layers of air and color become stale.
They can boil and twist, spill blood on the plane,
Or tilt like a hundred soft long mirrors,
All you want is intelligent vicious arguments.
Or a peaceful cluttered room where you’re busy and powerful,
If only to you. Or exposing sunsets to laughter!
How obvious that long silver idiot is lying on those mountains.
While the soul is our creation, anyway I take care of mine,
And if once in a while it wants to be famous and petty
I want that too or like it a pornographic movie by day
Falling asleep over the Aeneid with friends by night.