These things don't move with certainty,
not horizontal lines that blaze behind
their greenhorn trails. Flailing each
time it finds a wholesome place, for
saving.
The sports-cloth blent with burlap cowl
'round the head and down the contours
of his side: something all alighted with
his musculature, I can hear it's rasping
ardor—even
here. And though the dark saint's avant-
gardism in hair (played out here by close-
shorn locks, whose color at their endings
slog) still does the things that longer hair
does. Holds
in more light, finds heat and keeps it,
covers up the scalp and meets it every
morn'. His sum effect in waiting is inborn.
—At what infinite and growing distance
from him would I not return?
