I guess at last the wall became a kindness,
something, cut off as we were, we could stand
to believe in. Fourteen miles of thatch and thorn.

Here, where the skeins have grown heavy with maybe
salmon at best, where even the choicest bait’s gone
green—the strongest lines left snapped like string; here, where

First, you must collect the unfamiliar
pieces, this dither, toward a central hub.
Do not, though, mistake pretended order

Its else, to them, lets logic spill through. Upend,
suspend what they no longer want to be real,
return them to credulity and they'll shill