THINKING over last night’s post, I naturally decided to write a poem about it, to help explain (or fuddle*) what I meant. Here it is. Shun as you see fit.
* a portmanteau which I just made up of “further” and “muddle”
A Fine Perfection of Form
This morning’s muggy and coffee-stained light
gently waving up from parking lots in heated coils,
a spiderweb’s symmetry marred by madness
on a chain-link fence. Beribboned blight,
steely ribbons broken open and wallowing
in the wind.
A fine perfection of form, when noted,
when documented in vacuum, but
the green grass intrudes, sends down
aching tangled roots. Dig up the lawn,
a matted historical interest to worms
and lawmen, sliced up and carried off like cake.
When will you stop observing
the sparrow’s fall and let the huddled breath
of feathers simply fall. Even keen-eyed lab-rats
cannot see atoms stepping on each other’s toes
in their hurry to get to the rain-trees-moon-stars dance.
A dead sparrow is death itself, but does not need
your sympathetic symphony to make it so.
books, bottles, and broomsticks 
And I should have said: part of the inspiration for this poem is Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “The Windhover,” which everyone should read.
The Windhover
To Christ our Lord
I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.