The Pylons

The secret of these hills was stone, and

Of that stone made,

And crumbling

That turned on sudden hidden

Now over these small hills, they have built the

That trails black

Pylons, those

Bare like nude giant girls that have no secret.

The valley with its gilt and evening

And the green

Of customary root,

Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook.

But far above and far as sight

Like whips of

With lightning's

There runs the quick perspective of the future.

This dwarfs our emerald country by its

So tall with

Dreaming of

Where often clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.