Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume
Of the death vats clung to them;

The eye of a little god, four-cornered.

Gondola of paper
Ferries the fishpond Sindbad

with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,

Appalling to witness,

At owl-call the old ghosts flock

Two-legged mussel-picker.

She fattens on the finest grain.

The fire's between us.

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,

Steps at my back spiral into a well.

A wind unstoppers the chamber
Of the ear, old worrier.

The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,

O Cacophony, goddess of jazz and of quarrels,
Crack-throated mistress of bagpipes and cymbals,

Ill-served he'll be when

He'd had so many wars!

And so we are at home together, after hours.

Street Song
By a mad miracle I go intact
Among the common rout

And goldenrod as on gold leaf.

Those rocks, cleft and worn, themselves then grow
Ponderous and extend despair on earth's