When you imagine trumpet-faced musicians
blowing again inimitable jazz
no art can accuse not cannonadings hurt,
 
or coming out of your dreams of dirigibles
again see the unreasonable cripple
throwing his crutch headlong as the headlights
 
streak down the torn street, as the three hammerers
go One, Two, Three on the stake, triphammer poundings
and not a sign of new worlds to still the heart;
 
then stare into the lake of sunset as it runs
boiling, over the west past all control
rolling and swamps the heartbeat and repeats
sea beyond sea after unbearable suns;
think: poems fixed this landscape : Blake, Donne, Keats.