Newton lives on the anticline Watches the dulled horizon with spyglass reversed How far it all is, he thinks And from this angle, oh how close the stars Gravity is mostly imaginary Wallpaper birds are seldom still Stealing faces and strawberries Chairs move in fixed points around the sun If we idly sit, if vacant They remain a kind of sundial Waiting for circling shadows To forego in their orbits All the harmonies of the spheres And in that expected (but unpredictable) Falling apple shaped hiatus To reach a less Substantial conclusion
