Robert Francis

Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.A glass spun for itself is empty,Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.Words should be looked through, should be windows.The best word were invisible.The poem is the thing the poet thinks.If the impossible were not,And if the glass, only the glass,Could be…

Would that the bulldozerDozed all the timeWould that the bulldozerWould rust in peace.His watchwordLet not a witch liveHis battle cryBetter dead than red.Give me if you mustThe bull himselfBut not the bulldozerNo, not the bulldozer.