Is found in the airport.
Air hurries to repair the loss of everyone evacuating.
The airplane knows it has no soul,
Knows like an insect knows its own body, Only better.
The soul is in a full sail.
Like space does nothing to present a painted theater,
The sail does no real work.
The strain is only to hold itself together as a sail, And follow the wind.
Engines do their work by other metaphor,
And are only vaguely errant.
Souls of Rome are run over by knowing and working things,

And can still be found in the cracks of a concrete runway.
The crack is the new road

For wild green things

Rome conquered.