<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=463789" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Museum Of The City Of...II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Behind their frozen forms, behind<br>the ribbed webs of their flipper-slippers, <br>in the distance dim<br>a stern-to-bow-with-garbage-laden scow<br>calmly plows the current-riven stream. <br>One unseaworthy old ark, 'way off- <br>(an obvious ancestor of the Circle Line) <br>triple-tiered and crammed with fun-seekers-<br>over whose rail a few vigilants hang <br>frozen in open-mouthed surprise-<br>(bringing to mind Auden's 'Musee des Beaux Arts', <br>but that's neither here nor there) <br>-to see three wet-suited men dropp from the skies: <br>eternally expecting a splash that never comes; <br>and wouldn't a bully pleasure yacht<br>cruising nearby reveal itself whole, but for that<br>misadventurous plunge into the frame, <br>cropping it in halves.<br>Up in the sky a twin-engine out of La Guardia, <br>props awhirl, <br>merrily shreds the clouds.<br>Then, there is the light shuttlecock of the chopper, itself-<br>compact, bird-like, blades atop stilled to stilettos, <br>it's saw mill tail a churning blur, <br>generating fanfares of light, <br>to a certain span the water beneath, <br>whipped to a low boil, a pockmark, an eschar, <br>like the maelstrom, seen from afar, a gameboard, <br>into which they imminently plunge.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What were they....</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Morgan+Michaels">Morgan Michaels</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=463789" data-title="Museum Of The City Of...II de Morgan Michaels" data-description="Behind their frozen forms, behind the ribbed webs of their flipper-slippers, in the distance dim a stern-to-bow-with-garbage-laden scow calmly plows the current-riven stream. One unseaworthy old ark, 'way off- (an obvious ancestor of the Circle..."></div> </div> </div>

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