Bohemians Take A Trip
That prophetic tribe of tree pruners
Made its way over here yesterday on their little way
To the Spanish second, where books fire their appetites
On the window sill, ready to be compared with animal feet.
Men throw sour leers at the moon's feet
Along the road to Rome. They've blotted out
All recollection of our walk to the restaurant in the sky.
By the morning they had left, and my best china too!
How fond I've grown of yellow sea birds.
Watching them fly by I nearly drove off the road.
The constellation they've learned to love is green as a pasture.
Don't make ice for the flowers of the desert,
Before this trip you'd forgotten all about liquids.
Empiricism is familiar again, but what holds the future?