Thus we parade the august avenue: apes
Bearing above our heads the beehive homes
Of each buzzing, bright, particular bit
Which swarm is equal just in number
To all we ever think or hope or say.
Attendant angels bright and fallen (suspiciously
Alike to bees costumed for a role,
Unless the plainer bugs are too seraphim
In civilian clothes) all bearing ribbons.
Other figures follow behind each of us
In postures, masks, and dress depicting scenes
All in certain correspondence with each act
Peculiar to our own life's history.
These serial mimes trail behind in lines
Whose lengths reflect, as they must, the accidents
That origin and end invariably are for all.
Apes and angels, demons, bees and mimes
Proceed with drum and horn, guns and keening.
No crowds are drawn to watch or clap or wave:
Everyone is in the parade. All are mummers.
In fact many, many eyes are closed
Or attend only to their own buzzing cloud.
Other eyes revert to glories past and shames.
Some call out, or marshal themselves
(All sans baton), while others mob along.
When at the bank the paraded ranks debouch
They are quickly quit of every entourage
And at this shore are softly stripped
And docile, shocked, at peace or war,
Beneath the waters disappear to slough
Away their flesh and hides till skulls are left
And piled high a long way off from here
Facing every way, abandoned houses
Lit by a shifting sun and full of wind.
