Knock back the catch on the spooled cord, and let fly!
Skyward my blithe port de bras, and skyward flings
Anything you give me: flaming haybales,
Boulders, wet mounds of dung, groundling stuff
Which airborne turns unearthly beauty, unbodied grace
For which the battlement's too mean a target.
See how, shot, that clatter of tacks glints
Like stars above the bonfires, how that vat of rendered fat
Anoints the fortress walls with burning.
See how the corpses of the hostile dead
Hang angelic in the middle air. And how, angelic,
They fall, as if hungering for the earth
And its sweet demolishings. Holy the fall.
I hymn it with my arm.
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