Ideally

Ideally, of course,
one's ships are always sailing,
on to panorama,
our characters infallible,
our straight talk
ripened with meaning.

But in reality,
there is a man on the wall, who --
he will promptly know
when we begin to bear fruits.

He, from on the wall,
will promptly knead
the warm spring of our ideas
the meat of it, eaten,
rich, or just nouveau,
the bone of it,
dis-attached,
confidently thrown into the
yards of his birth.