Suprematist Poem #1

Against recent claims,
There is no world of words laid bare,
Strung across ours.
With that out: There is only room for
hands against the bow;
No nocturne or granular state for this ship.
As after beaches,
Soles could push sand into carpet rows,
Almost quickening steps.

William Blake - The Clod and the Pebble

The Clod & the Pebble

Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

So sang a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattles feet:
But a Pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet.

Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.