Classic Poem

Between the rusted railways
evening primroses put out fewer seeds each year.
On the burnt sand is a row
of gigantic, silver-gray globes
coated with aluminum paint.
The utilization of solar energy and the tides that popular science books preach
doesn't excite me a bit.
My fantasies are extremely modest.
That raw-smelling, black mud that's supposed to be all dug out of this earth in another twenty or thirty years is the future, they say.
Look at the sea.
Evidently
when one design
begins there,
the landscape on the earth looks almost hatefully wasted.
I'll get there
a trifle earlier
than matter.
A trifle earlier
than the accumulation of inventions, capital,
steel frames,