Summer 1958 • Vol. XX No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1958 |

Magna Carta

When the quanta jostle in the field of the body, The body is lord of the field. What will he tell his many feudal nobles, How to subside? He's a lonesome baron, the white rose and the red Fighting his wars over his rib-cage, Alert to siege or starvation or the charger Run in the ditch. And so he changes his ground, says he is a quantum In the field of the universe; then all goes better. Beggar or banker, he's a free soul under another lord, An easy particle in the managerial revolution. I will likewise pack up my troubles in a bundle So compact they cannot war and wrangle, And go out into the democratic vistas, A mobile unit, to jibe or join, So that of what will happen much will happen In fief and out, and though I may not be there, I will vote with the minor party, and condition The entire domain.

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