you race along the furlong,
crookeder than a barong,
you go away,
u-bend again,
...
the green tree-python's moved out
it weaves no noose round its clutch
it has taken with it the rough skinshirt
...
a pelican clipped heavily by a tower
visibly damp from three orbs
they found combined in her the ground
a verb-deer of white porcelain
...
through the testamenter's deaths flew
a front of foot-warm whistling-birds
in them he was iridescentransmogrified
passing beyond the ends of the waters
...
so let us consider now
the birdword that sneaks
its crooked and maybe dented beak
with all due caution
...
I don't know how people can
write poems about the moon
Zbigniew Herbert
...