On Beauty (beyond man´s finger)

And the entire world vibrates. The world behind the walls shakes emulating the heart of man (or the other way around). I cannot see or touch the fins of glory, yet glory shines its iridescence on the eyes of the young: Here is New York! Here is New York! The poet reaches for the unreachable sky and the idle wrestles a defeated romance in the lower shadows. And although the poet cannot say that a Technicolor leaf quivers its way down from the tree to the vibrations that flutter in the throat of the nightingale; and although they don’t let the muses in at the door and beauty is slapped around and whored; and although Christ is not born again for fear of a more brutal sentence; the world vibrates, indifferent to man.