We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.

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

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

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

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