Gold on zinc, this dimpled child,
soldered to his rigid little wings.
Red candles, held high.
Playful flickers. (He will not fly.)
Speaking now of "Man-and-planet's roles".
Each with a whiff of one thing or another.
But some say what's more ghostly
than this noticeable lack of ghosts?
Noisy, those geese overhead.
All day honking north, necks outstretched.
Steady V's to where they may find.
(Theirs the first and last sky.)
Of course robots will never understand.
Stalwarts though, good steel, silicon, wires and stuff.
(We encourage ourselves to better ideas,
which turn out to be, all said and done: feelings.)
Chess, now, 64 squares, no more no less.
Still, reason's unreasonable demands...
(In hospital I heard a man declare
if he were whole what should he fear?)