All the wind, the downed whirlly-gigs,
the ginko sprigs in piles on the ground.
A pound of flesh. A freshness in con-
versational skill. An empty till
Beyond and empty till. The scouring
clean—by wind—the ancient ground
Whencefrom these virulent temperate
forests? The occidental naval chorus
rings in a tautly orchestrated song.
Who brought along, this palimpsest
philologist?
This climate's positively noxious. This
really knocks us. It effects us. Let them
have that little respite
