The Scythers, Time And Death,

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

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