An ode.it reads:
The future is found in the poetry of things
Not in the curio the specialist brings
Stuck still where your poetry is stuck
Poor man, so you remain out of luck
No loss of rhythm or dearth of rhyme
Can somehow pull you out of time
How many fans in a flying car
To make a horse-cart travel that far?
How many ways can a desktop be
On the wall in the hall, or on your knee?
OId symbols, of iron hard-forged
Once on knowledge the mind had gorged
Windmill, waterwheel, window-pane
Thinking different but being the same
You lose! In the revolution died
In its victory low and wide
Thought itself, to make beautiful
Now to conceive a separate whole?
You are convinced it will soon be here
Between perversion and moral fear
Is prose that neither paints nor sings
The future is found in the poetry of things.