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The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows

The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows
Some hidden purpose and the gush of birds
That spurts across the field the wheeling swallows
Have nested in the trees and undergrowth.
Seeking their instinct or their pose or both
One moves with an uncertain violence
Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense
Or the dull thunder of approximate words.

On motorcycles up the road they come
Small black as flies hanging in heat the Boy
Until the distance throws them forth their hum
Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh.
In goggles donned impersonality
In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust
They strap in doubt by hiding it robust
And almost hear a meaning in their noise.

Exact conclusion of their hardiness
Has no shape yet but from known whereabouts
They ride directions where the tires press.
They scare a flight of birds across the field
Much that is natural to the will must yield.
Men manufacture both machine and soul
And use what they imperfectly control
To dare a future from the taken routes.

It is part solution after all.
One is not necessarily discord
On Earth or damned because half animal
One lacks direct instinct because one wakes
Afloat on movement that divides and breaks.
One joins the movement in a valueless world
Crossing it till both hurler and the hurled
One moves as well always toward toward.

A minute holds them who have come to go
The self denied astride the created will.
They burst away the towns they travel through
Are home for neither birds nor holiness
For birds and saints complete their purposes.
At worse one is in motion and at best
Reaching no absolute in which to rest
One is always nearer by not keeping still.

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by:- admin posted in:- thom gunn

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