A bird in an aurulent billed mud-face,Living as a four foot two inch dragon in a San Franciscan cave, Lifts off from a hot breathed murmur of Gideon. Even in night the whole grandeur of movement Soaking in red beeping heart-pangs Fasten to the thrusts of his arms. This post of vainglory was the opening of the year. In July's open pores, On a spatial plateau of Dodonian oak. The Penguin Unveils his weakened voice. Flattening into a wide arrow Draped from Carina he Sails Westward. Barefooted through the Anavros Molting under deep helplessness and melancholia. With his inlaid eyes faced askance The penguin broods Among the day's songs Cast into the poetry of the lyre, Stretched upwards from Paradise Bay to Colchis, Where his ebony wings Soak into the palms of Peleus Suffering only where the arrows have flung. Downside up, with children in a pocket of blood, Among supergigantic siren songs and muse poems Sewing teeth into a spot of Earth Races towards a column of toppling strakes.
An Interpretation of the Search For the Golden Fleece