A Pasture Cropped Down by Lawnmowers

Even up here
Perched above the whirling
Blades of an economy
All fury and vanity
Blowing a gale to cool
That guardsman’s sword aflame
Which will not yet be cooled
Against dread look and see
Swallows fly low over
Machine-cut pasture in
The heart of the city
Catching bugs and trailing
Their slender vee of tail
Banking hard away they
Catch the reclining sun
On underplumage light
As golden hay

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