Gone as past as if
this Rome remains
unstrapped, cattle pausing, wears
the stars from their aislings
the hair from the easy sawn limb

I tried to see it, see
to it, encase it that
the morns be loaned to latterday points
trained as sylphs, or bargained
back into the whole of an afternoon
prism and to come

Nothing but
things in a world of stone passage
stacks and their haunts, flags
in eerie halt beside sides
flagons stalling and the strand

The world is a mug
turned back, plantways before
a wall and my finger
a window around it now
whole city for its raise back
then
          stops in its thinking

(Clark Coolidge, p. 105 in Odes of Roba.)