Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In

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

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

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.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone