That grace was some incongruous cartoon
Where lumbar flame and melt and mould, as if
Droop bimetallic broke not sweat nor stiff,
Strong limber, and warped not its cold cocoon.
With model rend, not jigsaw nor balloon,
And graded dive, and blend and bled flame swift,
And seemed to slide and liquid through sieve sift,
It leered and led through lead its nameless wound.
In rejection of Simon Armitage’s “The Convergence of the Twain”