cleft shells to be as stone; and cricket skulls
in powdered light give your quick, analytic mandate:
Un-think these things. Gun-roused at dusk
a cock'll bugle "Kyrie." Get the geometry of event.
When your lungs failed at war
my mother pulse of dividends revived.
Other theorems of Truth; of Beauty, other corollary!
As over water when a mill-sluice shuts
film ice twitches between inverted
tendril and frond, frond and tendril;
your rushing brain lay still.
Our bold-voluted immortality, fallen
is only rock
--though proud in ruin, piteous in pride--
Snow on a dome, blown by night wind.
[from The Collected Poems of John Wheelwright; orginally published in Mirrors of Venus: A Novel in Sonnets]