Look on no clock for words told of joy,
For clocks don't show good work, tock only tombs.

Shorn monks work crops from plow to sow,
So tools of trolls don't hold growth;
Down slowly from oblong pools brooks flow
To flood town or plot:
Good roots show only slow rot.

Bold boys borrow gowns of wool
Or cotton frocks from off of holy hooks
To go to town not known,
For short or long, on solo foot.

Moonsong croons to blood both hot or coy
To show honor sorrow's own lost;
Down slowly on cold rock floors blood flows,
To pool on foot-worn hollows.

No folly follows joy,
Cold color only looks brown;
To conform mocks worthy work,
Opts wholly for moot frowns.

On smooth stoops,
Thrown bolts oft lock hollow doors; soon,
No door to knock on; soon,
Strong forms go to do good work on soft cowls.

So do gongs toll noon,
To rob good boys of growth, of song,
To show mock symptoms of sopor:
Don't look to clocks for sooth,
For clocks show only orthodox pomp.

©1988