Having returned the chisel to Apollo

    
We'd gone everywhere repeating that sound. 
Up the agate frenzy, a piece of 
Sidewalk at the smoking-window: 
Things you hear about from the people in your life. 
And from act to act, how the weather
Turned our terms for revolution
From a sacramental gel of movement,
Ready to hiss and burst open,
To a venerable hunk of stone alone
In this library. Have a nice night,
And we appreciate the effort. Really. 

How many new recitals makes one, makes
One's body into the actual form of their
Fast impressions? Makes every fabric
Soft as muscle, every previous operator's dying words              
Into a strand of the same logic? Inaugurating 
Everything in two, until we're only
A pinch of salt on the table.