WHILE YOU WERE WATCHING RICHARD HARRIS
Then or now, the eye let on the storm.
Winks of knowing, dead before alive.
Simple patter, nothing to write home.
British wishes, twentieth century jive.
An ape's greek profile, and the grainy slosh
of primary dimensions. Tragedy
is just a face, enslavement's kitchenette.
This has the mortal sound of tragic ease.
The awkward awful listenerless blown
enjambments. Dreadful paraphrase. Unshown!
Escapes amazement. Notches on recall
the figurement of the Platonic wall.
Yet, lacking mores, nothing to exhume.
As if from rooftops lengthening to bloom.