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Laws drown under the wide-planked sky's plump hull, or the No. 86 to Cleveland Circle 
slashes its action-figure kanji over Wheelwright's idea of bridges from the 
Netherlands, each a windmill blade dreaming on the hills of heaven, to bear in mind a 
thin-gauged copper thought that will go astray because it is not a revelation or a 
prophecy.  And because they each long to reach beyond bounds, the bus, the bridge, the 
thought are tested here on earth with symmetry and example.  Things ripen.  Fire 
rhymes with silver, and what will you do, likening ornamental scrolls to churning 
waves across the loss of eternity, or mice that scratch as greedily at the poison you 
put out as at your crumbs?  Water is a TV. Violets would watch TV if they could, like 
children, and turn to heaven with a question unfulfilled.  Some things are infusions, 
some radiation. The water table chews across generations to slip houses in the South 
End; hilly Somerville funnels rainwater under basement floorboards, a majestic train 
of starry mold in its wake.  Balance is unattainable except to those for whom loyalty 
is impossible.