The heart under your heart
                  is not the one you share
so readily o full of pleasantry

woe our good kaspar is dead
who will wear now the burning flag in a braid who will crank the coffee grinder
who will lure the idyllic deer

ADDRESS ME, I said, and I meant “please speak.”
“Oh you mean UNDRESS ME,” one said and turned.

Why was soul not solar, not solid?

“Oh, stylists try, but hats just don’t come back!”

A sub- or super-sensibility,
exquisitely fine-tuned, can summon up
special information, specially told:

"Oh, murder!" she was heard to mutter, or
"Mary mother of god!" You see how close
these utterances come? Please kiss me, Mom.

I said something nonsensical to them
and they mocked back, "but we're your one design,"
or "you're our one design"—which was it?

Only the dead don’t know
what heaven’s like. For the rest
extrapolation is possible.

Destruction follows from the first premise.
In the sunsets you can see it happening.