The furnace of the sun blows on.
Infinite is the town you have travelled
Far to see, drinking in its blood.

Day is a glass bottle broken underfoot.
It is beautiful to pass this country
where the sun has
Our days have little weight; they blow like newspapers
Crushed in a pane of sky.
Over the cramps of the earth, the infinite geographies.
We have our pretty faces for the names. The names have pretty faces
For the names. Each thing born is as if written by a casual hand,
who dazed on lazy afternoons had no knowledge of the weight
Thrown earthward. It is enough to be exact
When passion fails, to pale the shadings of the wall
The mind's pale, which in the season's mind
May not dissatisfy. It is enough to watch in the street
And know a woman in the street, collecting
the bitter pandemonium of some angelic rage
As a television, tuned to a false channel, would a blurred world
Of solid value to grope among the seemed.


There is yet too much sanity in this madness.
A rotten fish propels the river upward, on the shore
A fisherman sits allegorically in the waste of his life
And the two meet, senseless.



After the witless night
Day came in long sentences.

You turned like a mouth
and shut.