Esprit de Corps

Here there are only shapes. People,
Who makes things difficult,
Because they are so unpredictable
Or rather too unpredictably predictable
Are excised, as only their container remains.

It is the infinite sky, which is not all not at all air,
And in the depth of its highest heights
A deepening spectrum of blues...

-- But the shapes! Let us return to the shapes!

Cylinders of soot make chimneys, and there are red
Arrows at hexagonals of white-blood poles
Bearing up their signs to the streaking lines
Of the empty road. Bars the buildings’ windows close
By the steel of a garage resist, resist the ruddy brick.

You see how beautiful barren can be? And we
Are the lovers of form, the admirals of empty things.