In The End, There Is

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.