Today the are
Of things, mere are,
Be-drubs us, drubs us drab:
A thrusting spile splits this from that,
The air unbreathable . . .

These shacks attached by noon
Lack meaning in a butcher’s glare;
By their own shadows botched,
From were to will-have-been
They drift in are.

A blunt prow snorts and snores;
What impresario bids be
Such shrunkeness?
Says yes to it, yes yes, continually,
All else, all otherwise, ignores?

If eye and mind revolt, it is
Not at what is, or how,
But that this this obtrudes,
Fills mind and eye:
Brute muzzle of today.

The tethered sloop’s a stone.
It would soon sink, would drown,
But that this all, these shacks
On docks, sea, helpless sky,
To sink, to drown in unison agree.

A sweet-shaped coffin-stone,
Its shroud its sail . . .
Unless these light airs make,
Give shape to bundled main, from slack
To white taut: the curve irrational!
That draw us, vividly aslant,
Athwart reality.

— Edward Hewett