this man and his brain’s conception,
clasped in stone.
on a firm dry finger;
above a time-bent avenue of dwindling lights.
The Earl’s pale forehead is cool and cloudy;
he views us all (as we view him)
in the same old, cold, way –
through the wrong end of a battered telescope,
through the dusty lens of history.
Strip away the tinsel
And this city’s heart is stone.