Dream Song 102: The sunburnt terraces which swans make home by John Berryman
The sunburnt terraces which swans make home with water purling, Macchu Pichu died like Delphi long ago— a message to Justinian closing it out, the thousand years' authority, although tho' never found exactly wrong
political patterns did indeed emerge; the Oracle was conservative, like Lippmann, roared the winds on the height, The Shining Ones behind the shrine, whose verge saw the impious plunged, 6000 statures above the Temple shone
plundered, centuries plundered, first the gold then bronze & marble, then the plinths, then the dead nerve— root-canal-work, ugh. I—I still hold for the saviour of teeth, & I embrace only he threw me a vicious
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