An arrowhead,
As chiselled as Rome,
Is so unlike an eyeball
Trudging out of carbon-

And a house,
Without human hand
For inhuman clay,
Was never built,
Was certainly never
An arrowhead,

But an ear--
Its womb filled with
Primeval slop--
Is soup incarnate,
A bee in Beethoven's
A quarter note
In a song of war.

But do not re-read
This poem
That nobody wrote.

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